


Milk & Coffee

by webmenu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Allhallows Coffee, Archival Assistants, Banter, Canon Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Feel-good, M/M, Minor Use of Beholding Powers, Mutual Pining, Sharing Beverages, Teasing and Taunting, There Might Be Worms!, Working Overtime & Late-Night Conversations, definite romcom territory, jon and georgie are friends!!!, jon is outrageously smug, not canon compliant! everyone is alive and well, season one, they are smitten! SMITTEN for one another
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-25 23:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21364177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webmenu/pseuds/webmenu
Summary: “You know what, Jon?" Martin says boldly, rolling up the sleeves on his jumper, “I bet that I can make you a cup of coffee that you won’t hate. I’ll make you a cup so good that you’ll want to stop drinking tea.”And the way Jon says “you’re on," the curious look on his face that Martin can't quite parse -- well, it makes Martin go warm all over.“Okay," he snaps out of his gaze and he walks while he talks, "let’s get back to work. Tim, here are two cases for you, file them away for me if you would? Sasha, keep up the good work. And Martin,” Jon pauses.“Yes, Jon?”“Looking forward to tomorrow’s coffee."Martin insists that coffee isn't all that bad and, respectfully, Jon disagrees.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 149
Kudos: 701





	1. vanilla macchiato

Occasionally, Martin forgets that Tim Stoker is… well, _Tim._

And sometimes, Tim Stoker does unusually impulsive but well-meaning things. 

Tim strides into the archival department casually, as if he is not outrageously late for work. Martin looks up from his research papers on statement Triple-Zero-Six-Nine-One-Three-something-or-other with a raised brow, and then to the aged clock on the wall, softly ticking away; the time is 11:42 am. Tim is three hours late.

Sasha makes a sound of distress.

His beige overcoat is heavy with rain and his boots are so scruffed and muddy that Martin cringes a bit in honor of the Institute’s janitors. In one hand is a donut box and in the other is a cardboard carrier harboring four warm, tall drinks. Martin looks to Sasha who’s looking at Tim with an exasperated expression. Still, though, she’s at least a little amused, and it’s not hard to tell. 

“Thought you were sick or something,” Sasha states, and rises out of her seat to help him, smoothing out her skirt as soon as she stands; she takes the box, first, then the carrier from him, and turns around to place both on top of the short, dark, table at the center of the office. Tim mumbles a pleased _‘thanks, love,’_ and makes a poor attempt to shuffle away the mud on the bottom of his shoes on the mat below the door. Sasha takes an extra long time placing everything down so that Tim doesn't see her face go from exasperated to warm, fighting a smile. Martin lets himself grin, too.

“Nope! Not sick,” Tim says, and places both free hands on his hips, “Missed the tube, walked all the way here.”

“Why would you do that to yourself? Without an umbrella?”

“Tim, you have absolutely zero functioning brain cells,”

He shrugs. (Martin remembers why he loves his job so much.)

“So, what’s up with the…” Martin makes some horridly vague hand gestures, but stops once he sees that Tim is starting to look really confused, “okay, sorry. What’s with all of this?”

Tim shrugs again. “The vibes here have been kind of rancid lately. I thought this would help boost morale or whatever. You know how we get on rainy days.” Sasha hums knowingly and Martin casts a glance to the closed door of Jon's office. With a proud grin, he adds, “Plus, the donuts were only eight quid!” 

“Impressive!” Martin praises earnestly.

“The frappuccino is for Sasha,” Tim mentions, sliding out of his wet coat and tossing it aside, and Sasha finally begins to beam with absolute glee, clasping her hands together in delight, “and the other coffees are all the same — vanilla macchiato — so, you know, just pick any besides the one in the pink sleeve.”

Martin takes this advice with pleasure. He rises out of his seat and makes his way over to the goods, and Sasha follows, her small blue heels clicking against the wood in floor. It’s been quite a while since he’s had a good, solid coffee. And Martin _does_ like coffee. In high school, to make ends meet at home, Martin worked the milkbar at a local bookstore. It was first ever real job, and he remembers the experience well. It paid just as well as anyone would expect and his co-workers were fine, but the highlight of Martin's short-lived coffee career was offering to take the early opening shifts on weekends to do some experimental brewing for himself. (And, despite his shaky hands and terrible eye-hand coordination, he was even temporarily deemed Best Latte Artist of the Cafe.) He's learned a lot there that would be useful if he ever decided to pursue a career in _Employing at Starbucks Establishments._ But those days are behind him now, mostly; knowledge like that is only relevant in caffeine-based trivia games or late night reruns of Jeopardy. 

He doesn’t drink coffee much at the Institute — why would he? He makes tea. He’s the tea boy now. He makes it for Jon and Jon only, takes it directly to his office, asks how he’s doing (even though the answer is the same every time, usually a disgruntled _‘fine, Martin,’)_ and leaves without thanks. In brief moments like those, his own thirst doesn’t even occur to him. Martin doesn’t drink coffee at home, either; he hardly has time to do anything for himself there. He’s got to take care of his mother and finish up any spare research from work, which takes up the bulk of his time. His love for Breakfast Blend roasts faded into obscurity. 

“You know Jon is going to flay you for showing up late like this, right?” Sasha says to Tim, picking up her frappe. She holds up the cup, inspects its' sleeve, and mutters something along the lines of _'how did they manage to misspell Tim?'_

“Who cares? At least I showed up at all. I brought coffee and donuts. There’s _glaze,_ Sasha. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Martin frowns, unsure, picking up his macchiato and letting it warm his palms. "I don’t know if he likes donuts. I don’t even know if he likes coffee. You know, I..." 

As if on cue, the door to Jon’s office swings open, and he strides out, a stack of statements in one hand. All eyes are on him, now, but Martin is the only one who truly drinks it all in.

His turtleneck is just a bit too big on him. The sleeves almost cover his hands entirely, making him look smaller than he is, and the sweater is completely tucked into the waist his slacks, sitting securely behind a black belt. The bottoms of his trousers are flipped up and cuffed, exposing his tartan ankle-socks behind shoes that look an awful lot like a pair of Mary Janes. Today is one of his better days, Martin guesses, because his hair looks very clean, his outfit is pressed and well put-together, and the bags under his eyes aren’t the worst they’ve ever been. He’s also not scowling. 

He looks tired, Martin thinks, but he always does.

(He looks cute, Martin figures, but then again, he always does.)

Martin averts his eyes, wraps his fingers around his cup just a little tighter, and takes a long, slow sip.

"Doing alright?” Jon asks. Everyone hums some standard, nonchalant responses that all cloud together. “Tim, you’re—“

“Horribly late, I know, boss. Won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” Jon says, but there’s no ill will behind it. Which is unusual. Tim looks to Martin with a curious look and mouths something along the lines of _'whats-he-acting-so-pleasant-for?'_ Martin shrugs. 

Jon casts his glance down to the donut box. “Allhallows Cafe?” 

“Tim thought we use a pick-me-up around here,” Martin explains.

"And it’s all glaze,” Sasha justifies — Jon looks helpless. For dramatic effect, Tim picks up a donut and bites into it, humming with exaggerated delight. “The coffee is really good, too. Have you ever had Allhallows coffee before, Jon?”

Jon looks helpless. "No, and I don't plan on it, either, although I see there's a cup for me. Thank you, but I'll pass."

"Why not?" Tim asks Jon at the same time Martin turns to Sasha, and cheekily goes, "more coffee for me, then," 

“Don't like it." 

"Why not?" Tim pleads for a hypothetical answer, and emphatically starts mouthing off: "Jon, these drinks were so expensive, I wanted to do something nice for the archival department and this is the thanks that I get," he takes another bite from his donut and continues babbling, now with his mouth full, "I am the only one who does anything nice around here and none of you appreciate me — you know, maybe I should just quit—“ 

"Remember when we went to Carte Cafe and Martin ordered for me?” Jon hums to nobody in particular, but Jon Sims is a man who demands attention, as small and unassuming as he is, and so Tim stops talking. Everyone perks up at the mention of a shared past memory; Tim makes a noncommittal mutter, but urges him to go on with a wave of his hand as he takes a sip of his macchiato. Sasha goes 'ooh!' and Martin nods — frankly, he marks the moment in question as a pivotal moment in the linear timeline of _Falling In Love with his Coworker. _

There were rare, brief moments in the winter before Jon was promoted to Head Archivist and became even stuffier and short-tempered than originally instated, where the group of them would head out together on their lunch breaks to local cafes, cracking poor jokes about the Institute and hanging onto one another to fight against the cold. Usually, Jon would order an earl grey or some chai tea, but sometimes he’d have what Sasha was having per her request. Times like those usually ended in a scrunched nose, a look of disgust, and Sasha happily having two cinnamon dolce lattes. In early January, they visited a place that'd just opened, the esteemed Carte Cafe; "Let's try something new!" Sasha had said as they took their seats, "I'll order for Tim, who'll order for Martin, who'll order for Jon, who'll order for me."

And, looking at the menu, Martin selected what he thought was a really good drink for Jon. An espresso con panna with an extra chesnut syrup pump. 

“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with—”

“It solidified my hatred for coffee. That experience tossed any of its' redeeming factors into the gutter." 

_Oh._

Martin crosses his arms and gapes in utter disbelief, shaking his head gently. “That is— Jon, that’s not even a fair statement. There is no way you hated it that much! You drank it all!” 

“I was just being polite because you paid for it, Martin, but it was absolutely abysmal." Jon insists cooly, “What was it again? Have you ever tried it for yourself?”

Martin sputters, “Of course I’ve tried it for myself. It's espresso con pa— _oh,_ that's not the _point!_ It's my favorite. That’s why I got it for you. I like it a lot, so I thought that you might, too.” 

Jon leans back onto a large bookcase smugly, and insists, “Well, you thought wrong. Coincidentally, you have poor taste. But if it helps your self-esteem, I’ve never really been a fan of coffee in the first place. I’ll try some every-so-often when I’m out, just to see if my tastes have changed, but…” He trails off with a wave of his hand, "I have never had a good cup. I don't think one exists, really."

He stares at Martin over the top rim of his glasses, waiting on an answer or a reply. Martin has to remind himself that, right, when your boss speaks to you, you're meant to speak back, and not stand there wide-mouthed thinking about how absolutely infatuated you are with him. (It's a difficult task, when he's looking at you like... _that._ Expectant.) 

So, herein, a challenge presents itself. Jon is making some outlandish claim which is, certainly, untrue, and Martin's eyes dance around the room looking for anything to help him advance this conversation, mold it into something he can deal with, because he's currently at a loss for words. He could continue bickering with him, or he could agree, or... or _what?_ Life is an RPG game and Martin feels like saying the wrong thing is going to set this mini-quest sideways. Tim and Sasha lean together, at once, right into Martin's peripheral, and they're wearing two expressions that are almost alike; Sasha's grinning with an excited type of urgency, and Tim mouths something like, "well?" 

For some reason, this fills Martin with a vague confidence. 

“You know what, Jon?" Martin says boldly, rolling up the sleeves on his jumper, “I bet that I can make you a cup of coffee that you won’t hate. I’ll make you a cup so good that you’ll want to stop drinking tea.”

Tim whistles low. Jon looks at Martin with one brow arched high over his glasses, skeptical and intrigued. Sasha takes a bite of her donut, clearly entertained, and turns to Tim, momentarily, who wipes some glaze off of her cheek with his thumb. 

And the way Jon says “you’re on," the curious look on his face that Martin can't quite parse — well, it makes Martin go warm all over. 

“Okay," he snaps out of his gaze and he walks while he talks, "let’s get back to work. Tim, here are two cases for you, file them away for me if you would? Sasha, keep up the good work. And Martin,” Jon pauses.

“Yes, Jon?”

“Looking forward to tomorrow’s coffee."

The heavy wooden door closes behind him and Martin knows that his face is hot.

"Martin, I— 

“Tim?” Martin pleads quietly, eyes fixed on the closed door to Jon’s office, cupping his coffee and holding it close with both hands against his chest, “please do not say anything to me right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...! i've been working on this for quite a bit now and i'm really happy to share it with you all! this is my first fanfiction Ever for Anything so i hope it fairs pretty well as far as fics go!
> 
> ( fun fact i finished writing this chapter while watching marie kondo and drinking black coffee to really get into The Spirit and Vibes of all of this. it worked so well that i ended up writing like a thousand more words than i originally intended to so enjoy the content! )
> 
> big shoutout to my friend frankie who did not want to beta this fic At All BUT read the first half and kept pointing out the suspicious amounts of timsasha content in the smackdab middle of my jonmartin -centric fanfiction. it all serves a purpose don't worry!!
> 
> ♡ updates will be every sunday afternoon !! have a good day wherever you are! ♡


	2. just coffee with creamer (& some cinnamon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's foolish for him to think that any minor mistake really matters in the long term, because Jon is always disappointed in _everything._
> 
> But that doesn't prevent Martin from standing around in the shoddily furnished archival breakroom, meticulously making the same type of coffee three different ways. He truly can't believe himself.

Here's the thing. 

Martin should know by now that trying anything to impress Jon is futile and pointless because Jon doesn't get... impressed. He gives everyone the same arched brow, judgmental gaze, and idle mutter no matter what they do — except for Sasha, who sometimes gets praise from Jon for just standing around, filing papers neatly, and looking pleasant; but Martin would be a liar if he said he didn't compliment her the same way. It's foolish for him to think that any minor mistake really matters in the long term, because Jon is always disappointed in _everything._

But that doesn't prevent Martin from standing around in the shoddily furnished archival breakroom, meticulously making the same type of coffee three different ways. He truly can't believe himself. There are three different mugs here, varying in height and strength, staring him down. After some thought, he selects the cup all the way to the right, the tallest and most caffeinated, and sets off on his way.

"Coffee for you two in the breakroom," Martin calls out to Tim and Sasha as he walks past their desks, a simple solution to get rid of the other two mugs as quickly as possible. They both call out something unintelligible. 

It's 3 in the afternoon, and Martin hopes it's not too late to be bringing some strong coffee — Jon could always use it, he's sure, but he wouldn't want to offend. He doesn't quite know what implications come with that type of thing. He stands outside of the closed door to Jon's office for a moment, trying to push away the warm, fluttery feeling blossoming in his chest.

He sighs to himself.

He brings Jon tea every single day and _still_ isn't used to seeing him all cooped up and immersed and enamoring behind his desk. Martin should be used to this. _It’s so stupid._ Sometimes, Martin thinks that his crush on Jon is the worst thing to have ever happened to him. (Tim reminds him twice a week how idiotically endearing his pining is.)

_Don't even know what you're so afraid for. What's he going to do, fork you to death with that wit of his?_ Martin thinks to himself. _Actually, maybe. Better now than never. Go on._

"Jon?" Martin knocks twice. He can hear the faint whirring of a tape recorder that's yet to be stopped but not the low roll of Jon's voice or the little pre-shuffling of papers that he does to get statements in order to be read and cataloged away. He knocks again, a little harder this time, and doesn't receive any sort of reply. With a free hand on the ricketing old doorknob, Martin enters quietly, if not a little hesitantly, and hopes desperately that he's not intruding. The door creaks loudly. 

At first glance, everything is normal, as far as _Jon in The Main Office_ goes; just as expected, Jon is sitting at his wooden desk. He's leering over two thin pieces of paper filled with frantic and nearly identical handwriting, wearing a creased brow and a distressed scowl, like he and these papers are having an argument, and he's losing. He's never seen Jon look like that before. Being collected is almost Jon's brand — _isn't it?_ — so what's making him so uncharacteristically disheveled? Martin frowns.

The two dim, flickering yellow light bulbs of his office cast a warm shadow on everything but him, just like lighting from a sunset. Martin allows himself an incredibly brief moment to stare and revel in this aesthetic, the glow and softness that strikes Martin in such an odd way — what can he say? He's always been a sucker for the cinematic, — and then he realizes that Jon should really say something to Elias about the _other_ four lights in the ceiling that had blown out a _long_ time ago. 

Martin frowns. Reading statements in such low light is bad for his eyes. 

His desk is more of a mess than usual; piles upon piles of documents, all of different size and orientation and thickness, are stacked haphazardly in one corner, and several tape recorders are scattered about. And he looks a little unwell. 

"Are you doing okay?" Martin asks as carefully as he can, lingering in the doorway, and Jon just about jumps out of his skin, leaning back his chair and yelping with a start. 

Sudden shrill noises have always scared Martin and he was not anticipating such a response: he jumps back a bit and screws his eyes shut out of reflex, clutching the mug of coffee tight between both hands.

With a hand on his heart, Jon just about shouts, _"Christ,_ Martin!" and Martin is apologizing profusely because he's already fucked up this exchange pretty bad. He steps in and quickly closes the door behind him so that, should any remarking or reprimanding occur from Jon, Tim and Sasha and any others passing by won't hear it. 

"Sorry," he repeats for about the thousandth time.

_"Why_ didn't you knock?" Jon asks, deeply annoyed, running his hands down the sides of his face sluggishly.

Martin trips over his own words defensively, "I did knock! _Twice!_ The latter louder than the first," and it's obvious that Jon doesn't believe him, the way he shakes his head and crosses his arms like a mother expressing disappointment in her child for lying. Martin sighs in defeat.

"I've got your coffee," he says shortly. He makes his way over to Jon's desk with a few strides, places his coffee down for him — _oops, forgot to bring a coaster_ — and repeats his initial question, "is everything okay?"

Jon gives him this look with those pretty amber eyes of his, lips parted, worn-out and curious and doubtful, like this question is just a little off, and Martin wonders if he's said something wrong.

"I'm fine," he says slowly, looking away, "just fussing over something that probably doesn't matter." Martin lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding to give Jon an understanding hum. Jon grabs onto the mug of coffee, pulling it closer to him — the steam fogs up his glasses. Martin snorts. Jon rolls his eyes.

"Right. Statements," Martin nods firmly. Sometimes, when the tea Martin brings him is especially good, Jon will entertain the thought of letting Martin into his world of head archivist. He'll take his time telling Martin his view of latest esoteric statements that are _'obviously submitted by druggies or the mentally unstable.'_

(It sure beats times when Jon, too exhausted to communicate, just shoves a manila folder titled _STATEMENTS ABOUT MILLIONS OF SPIDERS_ into his hands and sends him on his way to a blind investigation.)

It's always an odd sort of treat — Jon likes to claim that these cases don't bother him at all, that looking at arcane things and filing them away is just part of the job, but there's usually something primal and paranoid and _excited_ that dances behind his eyes when they talk that tells Martin otherwise. Jon becomes dramatic. Interested. Like he'll be ill if he doesn't figure out the meaning behind an, on the surface, nonsensical statement. Jon takes great pride and joy in his fascination with... the fear of others? Martin's not sure.

But it's cute to hear him prattle on.

So, Martin prods at him, "Would you want to tell me what's on your mind? If you want? If it'll help you make sense of things, I'll listen."

Jon lights up ever-so-slightly, and if Martin had blinked, he's sure he would have missed it.

"These two statements were given by two completely different people about thirty years apart from one another, but..." Jon starts, and then fades off like he's lost in his own head, eventually clears his throat, and then tries to start again. _(Martin, ever the lovesick fool, waited patiently, quietly and diligently for exactly 92 seconds as he gathered himself.)_ "Same penmanship, same experience, same location. Look here,"

Jon turns one paper around to face Martin, and points to the date. "Sunday, 5th of January, 1972. Statement of Iris Kinney regarding her internship at a biologist lab in Manchester." He flips the other paper next, "Tuesday, 12th of June, 2005. Statement of Marjoram Ngo, _regarding her internship at a biologist lab in Manchester."_

Martin scans them both over. It isn't just the way that Jon is leaning in a little close that makes his heart stutter — or maybe it is, because now he can smell him; London after it rains, new books, and clean linen, and he can see the freckles on the bridge of his nose up close, the little dimple in his cheek, too, but now is not the time for that, Martin, _stop,_ — 

Anyways, Jon is right. 

Almost everything from one statement to the other is written word-for-word, sentence by sentence, verbatim, detailing an identical experience. The papers are the same, too; the same ink splotches in the same places, the dog-ear fold in the top left corner persists, and now Martin understands why Jon looked so uncomfortable earlier. 

"Uh," Martin starts, and does not get to finish.

"Exactly. I'm just... confused?” Jon says in that little way of his, honest but a bit ashamed to not know, and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure what to think. It's hard to even verbalize what this could be. Maybe a misfiling? A reprint of the same statement and mistitled? I've been staring for about thirty minutes—“ 

"I could tell when I walked in," Martin murmurs idly, "looked like you were playing a life or death game of spot the difference.” 

"Yes. Problem is that the game is rigged. There's no difference to spot, so I guess I'll die,"

"Maybe it's time for you to admit that something weird is going on, Jon," Martin says easily, "I mean, you can't just dismiss this, I don't think. These papers are literally the same. It's a bit unsettling, sure, even given... you know... the topic of these cases? Doppelgangers? Come on, Jon. Considering that this is definitely _not_ the first time that some statements are starting to link together, and London isn't that small of a place, well. It's getting a little spooky."

"Martin," 

"Sorry," Martin flushes and just about laughs, "but you can't tell me it's not. You've been main archivist for, what, five months now, and worked here even longer, and you're still in denial that—“ 

"I'm not a child, Martin, everyone who wanders in here is sick in the head or playing off of some dream they've had."

"You cannot be serious!" 

"Just because you believe in an astral plane doesn't mean I have to," Jon says monotonously, dry humor on utmost display, and stacks the two statements on his desk, sliding them into a manila folder. He offers them up to Martin with resignation. "Do look into these, though. Let me know by the time you leave out what you've found." 

Martin takes that as his queue to go. His heart sort of aches as he takes the twin statements from Jon. Obviously, he wants to stay here longer, because he really could avoid work and talk to Jon for hours. Their hands brush together and Jon lets his fingers linger for just a little too long, making Martin awfully aware of just how warm he is. 

But then Jon lets go and clears his throat, obviously looking for something else to busy himself with to purify the awkward moment. Martin almost feels bad. His entire expression changes when his eyes land on a partially-forgotten mug of coffee, pushed to the side and somehow still steaming.

"Oh," Jon says, and shrugs the sleeves on his jumper down so that they cover his palms, shielding them from the hotness of the mug he opts to grab onto with both hands, and Martin just wants to _swoon._ He takes a slow, gentle sip, eyes fluttering closed, and his glasses cloud up again — Martin chuckles, dreamy and, quite honestly, smitten.

Okay, so it's _these_ types of things, Martin finally remembers, that makes him like Jon so much. 

"Well? How is it?" 

Jon's nose scrunches up and he gives Martin the Look, just as expected; an arched brow, judgmental gaze, and idle mutter, "2/10. The taste is... boring." 

"Jon, it's coffee! It's just regular coffee with creamer, cinnamon—" 

"Go do that research now," Jon cuts him off with a wry wave of his hand, and Martin makes a noise of utter incredulity as he tucks his folder under his arm, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out." 

Martin, begrudgingly, turns and leaves with a small, stricken, fond grin, closes the door close behind him as soon as he steps away. He presses his back against it with a gentle thud, replaying it all back, everything, in his head, finally allows himself to indulge in his simple feelings of 'oh my god I'm in love with my boss' and 'oh my god that went better than I thought!' 

It's childish, he knows, acting like a giddy schoolboy, getting all worked up to bring his boss coffee which he's meant to do, anyway, it's his _job,_ he's an assistant — but can you blame him, really, the way Jon talks to him and _looks_ at him and _says his name,_ even, all haughty or waiting — 

Small, clicking heels interrupt such thoughts; Martin knows that Sasha is approaching from one end of the hall before he even has the chance to see her coming. He expects her to stop and chat, but it looks like she's on a mission; her steps are as firm as her gaze and the papers in her hand are being pressed so tight that the knuckles on her dainty, dark hand are turning white.

"You were in there for much longer than anticipated," she says, grazing past him, her long skirt flowing behind her, "you look like a damn fire hydrant. Tell me all about it later!"

Martin tries to stutter out any sort of coherent reply. 

"Thanks for the coffee, by the way!" she calls over her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 11/11 and i just could not stop myself from writing a little somethin'!! had the day off today and this took approximately four hours which is, PLEASE believe me when i say, the shortest amount of time i've ever spent writing ANYTHING
> 
> and hey! i would say that this is better than the first chapter by like two-fold! i really hope you liked it!!


	3. iced strawberries and cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mason jar is filled to the brim, half with dark, chilled coffee and half with heavy whipped cream. Neat slices of strawberry are placed in a spiral sort of pattern on top. It's obviously flourished with a lot of thought and care. 
> 
> Jon's heart does something troubling in his chest.

Jon Sims is often confused.

He just doesn't know what he's doing. 

He tries his best not to let it show, when he fumbles quietly with a reportedly cryptic artifact in front of his co-workers and has to make a split-second decision on whether or not to keep it in storage, or orders Tim to refile an entire box of statements that possibly don't need to be moved in the first place, or tells Sasha to go ahead and research something that just might lead them into nothing but an obvious prank or something of the like. 

Jon doesn't like being lost. 

He feels like it's his right to always know... _something._ He ought to know anything about any given topic and he faults himself if he doesn't. On good days, he thinks he has it all together. On good days he can record a reading of two, maybe even _three statements_ and file them away himself without ever having to ask for help. It leaves him spent but satisfied, like the feeling you get after a good workout _(Jon hardly knows what that really feels like himself, though)._

Obviously, Jon likes feeling accomplished, and he carries a good day like a badge of honor until a worse one rolls around.

But it's cases like the one before him — statements that have gone cold, uninvestigated and unmentioned to the rest of the archival staff for months after collection due to what Jon feels like is his own sheer incompetence — that remind him that archiving is _not_ an easy job and that he doesn't know anything at all, really. 

If he can't figure out what category a statement should be filed under, how is he supposed to order it to be filed? 

(If he's unsure about the intent of the statement altogether, if it strikes him with true, indefinite fear, a feeling that there's no way this statement could possibly be false, how is he supposed to brush it under the rug and forget about it entirely?)

A thick stack of papers detailing a spectral shortwave radio that whirs at midnight, reported by Adrijana Elder, is the source of today's stress. There is a lot of information in this sixteen-page-long report of unsettling frequencies and Adrijana's overwhelming urge to do whatever it tells her to, but it's like every gear in Jon's head is turning too hard, all at once, misdirecting him on purpose, and the only conclusion he can come to is...

...Well, her handwriting is abnormally neat. 

A better head archivist would have figured this whole thing out by now.

Jon pushes the papers away from him, nearly sending them flying off of the other side of his desk out of frustration, and stands up slowly from his chair to stretch — something he rarely does, and perhaps something he could really benefit from doing more often, he concludes. His lower back cracks in four different places and he fights the urge to groan in pain. A light overhead crackles, sparks dully, and another gets a little brighter at the same time. Jon's temples pulse with a headache that starts at his forehead and seems to travel all over, so strong and so sharp that his stomach churns, and his eyes are hurting, too, from reading in such low light — 

Somewhere, a tape recorder clicks on, but he's a bit too lost in being miserable to consider that it's intent is to listen. 

He covers his eyes with both of his palms, haphazardly shoving his glasses up into his hair, and yawns. 

Today is _not_ a good day. 

There's a knock on his door, hearty and rhythmic. This time, Jon hears it. He fixes his glasses, flattens his hair with his palm, and says, with a noted lack of zeal, "Come in."

The knob twists and the door's hinges squeak obnoxiously, a sound that makes Jon grate his teeth together in discomfort, and he sees a freckled hand holding a mason jar before anything else.

"Coffee for Jon Sims, head archivist?" 

Even though it's a hypothetical approach, one that would surely be mocked on a much more energetic day, Jon answers idly, "That's me," and sits back down at his desk. 

Martin steps in completely. 

He's looking like he usually does; wearing a polo with an ill-fitting, probably thrifted sweater over top, curly hair pushed back out of his face messily with a bobby pin nabbed from Sasha's desk, littered with birthmarks and an attitude that surely says _'just-happy-to-be-here.'_ Jon begins to wonder if he's always this anxious-looking, though; he observes Martin a little closer for just a moment — makes note of the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the unsure, foggy look on his face, the way he's biting his lip— 

"—right, Jon?"

"Right," Jon replies automatically, even though he has no clue what the hell Martin just said, or what he's agreeing to, or what's actually going on. But Martin's still standing at the door, holding that cold coffee, so Jon says, once more, "come in." 

And Martin does. He places the mason jar down, mutters something about the lack of a coaster, and then eases his weight onto the chair on the other side of Jon's desk, the one statement givers usually occupy if they're coming in to give a live account. Martin's been delivering beverages to this office for Jon for half a year now. He wonders why Martin never actually sits down. 

The mason jar is filled to the brim, half with dark, chilled coffee and half with heavy whipped cream. Neat slices of strawberry are placed in a spiral sort of pattern on top. It's obviously flourished with a lot of thought and care. 

Jon's heart does something troubling in his chest.

"The amount of whipped cream on this is dreadful, Martin. Are you expecting me to drink all of this?" Jon asks.

"Sure. Why not?" Martin says with a shrug. "Don't tell me you don't like sweets."

"I'm used to the bitter taste of tea."

"Sure, Mr. Three-Sugars-and-Condensed-Milk," 

"This is different," Jon snaps, but it comes out a little milder than intended. He pulls the coffee close, cradling the bottom in his hand to make sure none of it's condensation drips onto his unsolved statement, and mutters, "surely this is going to be worse than yesterday's coffee. But I suppose it looks nice.” 

Martin looks rather pleased with the latter comment and Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes. He takes a daring sip, and... It's not half bad, actually. The taste is flat, sure, and not it's his favorite sip of coffee — a little too deep with hints of licorice, if that's what it is. The excessive amounts of whipped cream is alright, too. 

"It's okay. 5 out of 10."

When Jon looks up, pulls the mason jar away from his face fully, he sees that Martin's got his mouth covered with one hand. He's trying not to laugh. "Jon, you've got..."

"Oh," he says, a response that's delayed by a few seconds, and wipes his jaw with his sleeve. He watches Martin's face raffle through numerous different expressions; a dry-mouthed sort of look, like he doesn't know what to do with himself, then a kind, pitiful grin, and then something a little more along the lines of fond concern. 

"I know I ask this everyday, but," Martin starts, and Jon puts his head in one hand, gazing up at him, "are you doing okay? You know, in general? I mean, you usually look stressed out, but you look worse than usual."

"Thank you."

Martin shrugs sheepishly and places one of his hands on his neck. Jon almost expects Martin to apologize, but he doesn't, and instead says, "You know what I mean. You look tired, like you're getting sick. Another statement worrying you?"

"No."

He gives Jon a clear look of skepticism and then glances down to the obviously ajar stack of papers on Jon's desk. Jon sort of wants to kick himself; he'd forgotten to put them away, back into the _Drawer of Shame and Troublingly Enigmatic Statements,_ where they belong. 

"Alright," Jon averts his eyes. He just can't lie to him — or anyone, really, he's a poor deceiver, especially when the evidence is present where they stand — and Martin tilts his head in curiosity. "this one's about a shortwave radio."

Martin hums. "Neat handwriting."

"Can't figure out anything about it. It's almost like there are too many details? This statement makes too much sense. It's too complicated and I can't draw any conclusions because of it, which sounds stupid, I know."

"That's not stupid, Jon."

"Although I know nothing that really happens within it is necessarily real, I'm still... unnerved. And so I haven't handed it over to anyone for further research. Because I can't make sense of the reason that it feels so authentic. Nobody knows that I've been withholding this one except for you, now, I guess." 

Everything is quiet for a moment. A light flickers. 

"I think..." Martin says after awhile and places a hand on his chin, "well, I think it's okay if you don't know right now. You seem hellbent on figuring this one in particular out, but maybe you can hold it for just a bit longer and see if any other statements show up that could link to this one? Provide a bit more context, maybe? Then something could click! You know how it is at the archives."

This is one of the first times Martin has said something useful, and Jon is staring at Martin intensely. 

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," he says, and now he's shifting his weight from foot-to-foot again, and hesitantly mentions, "you shouldn't stress so much." 

"Okay."

"Jon? You need to take care of yourself."

"Okay."

"Oh. Speaking of statements, here you go," Martin says after a short while, reaching into his messenger bag and pulling out a manila folder. "Would have gotten this to you yesterday before I went home, but there is a surprising amount about Marjoram Ngo on the internet."

"You've always been a slow worker," Jon prods, making grabbing hands up at Martin until he hands over the files, "but I'll take a look at these."

"And Sasha's gone home early," he notes, "she's been acting a little off lately? Won't speak much, except to Tim, but you know how they are. Caught her speed-walking to Elias' office with some files yesterday and then I went home before I saw her come out, but all of her work is done." 

"Hope she's not about to quit," Jon frowns. Sasha's one of his best workers and he can't really imagine a department without seeing her sunny demeanor everyday. 

"Me too. By the way," Martin talks as he reaches up into his hair, disarming the system of pins holding his fringe up at his crown and readjusting it in one swift movement -- color Jon impressed --, "you've got a live statement to take on... Friday. Um, I didn't quite catch her name, sorry, but it's on the spreadsheet. She'll be coming in around three or four. Rosie said she'll buzz for you when the lady arrives?"

Jon scoffs. "The fact that we have pagers is ridiculous." 

"You have a pager," Martin reminds him. "The rest of us have laptops."

Jon's chest does that thing again and now he's even more confused, more stressed out — 

Maybe he's starting to get sick.

He tries to look anywhere that's not right in front of him, that's not at Martin, and says, for a lack of anything better to say, "Alright." 

"Bye Jon." 

Footsteps, a creaking door, and a subtle click as it shuts. 

The room is just a little bit colder now. 

Jon doesn't know why, not exactly, but he catches himself wishing that Martin would stay a little longer. There's a seat right across from him, opposite of his desk. He wonders, again, plucking a thin strawberry slice from the top of his sugary coffee and taking a bite, why Martin doesn't ever sit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon time (;
> 
> this chapter was a lil difficult to write y'all ngl BUT it'll be picking up in speed next chapter!!
> 
> BY THE WAY thank you so much for the super kind comments! i don't have time to reply to them all but i read every single one and it makes me so happy that you enjoy this?? from the bottom of my heart... sincerely... this feedback makes me so excited to keep writing ♡♡


	4. chocolate latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Martin does not bring Jon that chocolate latte, because when he returns to the Institute without Georgie, he slips into his office without a word to anyone and stays overtime.

The Magnus Institute had been without a live statement for three weeks until Friday came around. It promptly ruined Martin's written research portfolio for the month and, coincidentally, his mood. 

The last giver of a live statement had been a tall, spindly, pale woman, dressed like a 90s American popstar despite the chilly December weather; while her statement was regarding a strange encounter with a man that deeply worsened her fear of strangers, she seemed well-socialized enough. Jon didn't like her, but Martin surely did, and spent an extra fifteen minutes at the door showing her out over a conversation about 80s music.

Things like that remind Martin that these people who enter the Institute, well -- they're not crazy. Not like Jon says they are, anyway. They're normal people who experience clandestine things and have to talk about them to cope with whatever it made them feel. 

(Elias says that it's entry level therapy for victims of the arcane. Jon insists, if that's the case, he should be getting paid as much as a psychiatrist.)

So, Martin is not particularly surprised when Jon's 3 pm appointment steps through the doorway and is just, well... an everyday citizen. 

She knocks lightly on the large, wooden, arching doorway into the archival department, and Martin looks up from his laptop. 

This lady holds herself like a regular uptown Londoner, the type who speedwalks on the street and talks to her friends through her bluetooth headphones and gets complimented by strangers while doing it. Her clothing is humble in a modestly chic sort of way. On top of being well-groomed, she's also outrageously pretty, and Martin averts his eyes for a moment, focusing anywhere but her features -- she's also a little intimidating, with her steely stare sitting behind a set of the world's longest eyelashes and very thin, sharp eyeliner.

"Hello!" She greets with a wave, "is this the Archives?"

"That's us!" Tim responds, and waves back. 

"I called in a few days ago," she mentions, her voice impartial as she has a quick look around the department. If she's judging the state of the place, Martin surely can't tell, because her expression is oddly neutral -- "I talked to a lady who sounds a bit like Bonnie Tyler to schedule a meeting with your archivist?"

Sasha snickers and reaches to the corner of her desk for her planner, stuffed neatly with loose papers and clipped into sections, and flips to the back. Her glasses slip down her nose a bit as she scans a page.

"Oh, you must be..." Sasha nods in recognition as she trails off, and looks up from her organizer to give the lady a kind smile, "okay! I'll ask Rosie to buzz for him."

But it isn't necessary. Speak of the Archivist.

The heavy door to the head office opens, hitting the wall behind it with a clang and rattle, and Martin winces at the abnormally loud sound of it -- a sound he should be used to since Jon slams his door open all the time. He glances to Tim and Sasha who don't seem to be phased by the sound at all, but are rather immersed in the scene folding out before them. Martin looks over his shoulder to catch an emerging Jon.

And his glance lingers long enough to watch Jon's face flicker from his usual look to a look of surprise.

"Jon!" 

"...Georgie?" 

Jon freezes entirely, like a deer caught in the headlights and, after a moment, does a quick glance around the room. "What are you doing here?"

"Coming in to see my favorite spooky enthusiast! Kidding. Coming into give a statement, obviously," she laughs, and it's a twinkling, delightful, genuine sound that makes Martin frown, "why else would I be at the Creepstitute? ...No offense, by the way. It's much nicer here than I would've thought. I was imagining something like that haunted church from Nancy Drew."

Tim and Sasha look at each other, stifling a laugh.

Martin doesn't get the joke.

Apparently it's a funny one, because even Jon breaks out into a small grin, one that he immediately tries really hard to hide behind the wrist of his sweater sleeve. It's something that fits his face so well, and a bright look from Jon is a once-in-a-blue-moon event; Martin thinks that his smiles should be more recurrent than his scowls, and 1/4th of that reason might be because of how deep his dimple just got. 

It would be easier to appreciate the moment if Martin's heart wasn't sinking past all of his vital organs and trying to punch it's way out through the lining of his stomach. Martin has never seen Jon smile like that before, crooked and a bit vulnerable, and they've worked together for, what, two years? 

Huh.

Martin starts to think that the smile is meant more for Georgie than the joke itself, and that makes him feel some sort of way. 

Georgie spends a moment shuffling on the welcome mat, and then walks over to Jon quickly. She's taller than him, so when she pulls him into a tight side hug, his head fits perfectly into the crook of her neck. He doesn't make any clear movement to hug her back, but he doesn't move away, either. 

Something flares up in Martin's chest, something... not so good, and it's directed at Georgie. (And with that comes a wave of guilt, because all she's done is show up and be pleasant.) 

Martin pulls open his messenger bag, slightly ajar on the floor, and ducks his head, pretending to look for something really important to escape the weight of the whole situation. 

The first thing his hand bumps into is an unopened box of chocolate latte mix. 

"Don't call it the Creepstitute," Jon mutters to Georgie with some indecipherable tone. Once she lets him go, Jon is stepping away, smoothing down the front of his jumper with both hands. Martin relaxes -- he didn't even know he was this tensed up in the first place. Jon pivots on the heel of his Oxfords and his body language is just a little bit looser when he clears his throat and says, "come with me."

Georgie follows close behind into the office, closing the door gently behind her. 

And then they're gone.

Tim and Sasha return back to work without another word. Martin wills himself to do his hardest to do the same.

An hour passes.

...and then another thirty minutes do. 

Martin types half a sentence into a Google search bar, stares at it, and then lets his head fall to his desk. He sighs, hard. Sasha and Tim both look over to him, hunched over with his head low, and do the kind, amicable thing of ignoring him completely. 

He lets his mind wander for what feels like forever, but could likely have been five minutes.

Martin unpacks all of his feelings.

He doesn't like Georgie, or the fact that Jon and her seem to be close. Closer than him and Martin are, anyway. And that makes him feel, you know, bad. They're hardly best friends, but he likes to think that he has a special place in Jon's inner circle. And it's strange -- if she and Jon are so close then it's weird that he's never heard of her. Surely, the topic of work-unrelated friends have come up in casual conversation before, and Jon has the tendency to overshare when prompted.

Unless Georgie is more than a friend, and Jon wants to keep romance and work separate. 

Martin goes through all seven stages of grief. 

Twice. 

And immediately, he feels, well, stupid. Childish. Disappointed in himself for feeling possessive over the thought that Jon could belong with someone else. Martin is not only in love with Jon, but also the way Jon makes him feel, which makes the situation inconceivably more difficult. Part of him is scared of losing that feeling. Part of him assumes that it's just second nature by now, a sixth sense, to like Jon the way he does. 

He quite likes the way his heart warms like a wildfire every time Jon's fingers graze against his during an exchange of papers. Perhaps he's clinging onto that ardor that sparks up in his chest after all of their little conversations over statements and tea (or, more recently, coffee,) in that dreamy, dim office of his. And whenever Jon gives Martin a backhanded compliment on his research, everything in his mind gets all fuzzy around the edges; he holds onto the praise like it's worth all of the money in the world and repeats it in his mind until the words don't make sense anymore. 

It's impossible. It's delighting. It's exhausting. It's... difficult, and it's what Martin is used to. He tip-toes around Jon's shifting moods, overworks himself in order to impress, caters to Jon's every need with enthusiasm -- not just because he has to, because he wants to, because he feels as though Jon appreciates it, even if he'd never say it out loud. 

It's a unique sort of selfish feeling, knowing that you want what nobody else is allowed to have. Or -- Martin lifts his head a bit and rubs at his eyes tiredly -- it _was_ a unique sort of feeling. Georgie has Jon now. 

Maybe the way he feels is getting a little unhealthy.

Martin props his head up with his hand covering part of his face and smirks bitterly into his palm. _Maybe._ It's easy to disillusion yourself with unsure words like that. 

He ponders for a moment longer. Martin supposes that the introduction of Georgie into the equation doesn't change things, not really. Jon has always been out of reach, close enough for Martin to touch with the tips of his fingers, but never much closer than that. They're just co-workers, and that is just the first reason why Martin has never had a chance.

But that doesn't stop his feelings from twisting into a double helix of infatuation and desperation.

His thoughts are interrupted by a too-loud door, a clang and a rattle -- he flinches, again -- and he's plagued with light laughter from Georgie and chatter from Jon. The pair passes by the office desks.

Martin stares at the ground next to his desk as though the wooden tiles are really interesting; he tries his hardest to keep his eyes trained on the the floor, he really does, but he can't help himself from looking up at Jon as he passes. He's putting on his coat and readjusting his scarf. 

"Glad we're getting lunch. There's this great new seafood spot that just opened up by here, actually! We'll have to walk a block or two, but it's better than grabbing cafe food," Georgie gushes, "Their whole thing is, like, you get to be seated near a live aquarium while you chow down." 

"That's morbid," Jon tells her, "and I don't like seafood."

"Well, you can sit across from me and just watch me eat it, then." She says cheerily, lightly leaning into him. "We have a lot of catching up to do. You should count this as our first date out of many more to come, because it's been awhile since I've seen you! You have to tell me everything that's been going on."

"Of course, Georgie," Jon says in that fond, tired tone Sasha uses towards Tim when he insists they do something 'fun' after work, like sky-diving or kayaking or rock-climbing.

Then they're gone. 

Again.

Jon didn't even say goodbye.

Tim closes his laptop immediately after he hears Jon and Georgie's voices fade, leaning all the way back in his chair and crossing his legs, "Well. That was fucking weird."

"Agreed," Sasha nods then says to Tim, "Jon is out so I think we should have lunch, too. If we're done eating before he comes back we might be able to trick him into thinking we haven't had it yet and get another break."

"My girlfriend is a genius!" Tim sings, leaning over below his desk and taking out two large Chinese takeout boxes, dented and clearly full of leftovers.

Sasha wheels her chair to Tim's desk in one swift movement and Martin follows; soon, they're all placed around the table like a three-man replication of The Last Supper. 

"I'm not your girlfriend, Tim," Sasha says, rolling her eyes as Tim hands her one of the boxes. She opens it and pouts. "Can you please heat up the food before we eat it? I'm not interested in cold udon."

_"'I'm not your girlfriend, Tim,'"_ Tim mocks in a rather good impression of Sasha, "sure. Unconvincing, seeing as you're wearing one of my shirts _right_ now. Anyway, I broke the microwave in our breakroom trying to nuke a bowl of tomato soup yesterday. Spent thirty minutes on my hands and knees trying to clean up the evidence. We're having cold Chinese." __

_ _Martin almost cracks a smile. Almost. "You're a disaster, Timothy Stoker."_ _

_ _Martin normally doesn't have time to bring his own lunch -- usually, he gets the Institute's food or eats a heavy breakfast and throws a few snacks in his bag. Socially speaking, he was raised to understand that it's rude to sit with those who are having a meal without actually eating anything yourself, but he is not feeling the whole... nourishment thing. Not right now. So he doesn't whip out a protein bar or a yogurt like he normally does. _ _

_ _Sasha, ever the observer, notices this and frowns, her thick eyebrows turning downwards with a bit of realization._ _

_ _"Are you okay?" she asks. _ _

_ _"I think Georgie was Jon's girlfriend," Martin confesses._ _

_ _"Wait, you think Jon has a girlfriend?" _ _

_ _"Jon likes girls?"_ _

_ _"Have you guys been present in the slightest today?" Martin questions, but it sounds like it's full of sincere wonder, "they hugged. They spent a whole two hours in the office. She made him laugh. She called their little outing a date." _ _

_ _"Her accent sounded Scouse," Sasha notes after a quiet moment of thought, "people from Liverpool call everything a date. I doubt that they go together." _ _

_ _"I agree. They seemed close, but not like, kissing-and-holding-hands close. That being said, I don't know if the boss has a romantic bone in his body, so maybe that was standard schmoozing for him," Tim muses absentmindedly, twirling a chopstick in his hand._ _

_ _Sasha continues her input, too: "Well, him being with Georgie... it would explain why he's been acting so agreeable lately."_ _

_ _Martin makes a face. He doesn't like to think that Jon's nice exchanges with him recently might be purely Georgie-based. _ _

_ _"Do you want me to ask if they've been hooking up?" Tim runs a hand through his hair, ruffling when he gets to the nape of his neck. "I can be really discreet about it."_ _

_ _"No," Sasha says sternly, simultaneous to Martin's reasoning of, "I hope this doesn't offend you, but I don't think you've ever had a single good idea in your life, Tim."_ _

_ _Tim shrugs. _ _

_ _"Anyways, Sasha, where have you been the past few days?" Martin asks in a soft attempt to change the subject. "You were acting weird before you dropped out of work completely."_ _

_ _"Oh!" Sasha exclaims and makes the transfer to the new topic rather smoothly, "can I tell you the truth? The Institute's got a little bit of an, um, issue. Infestation, if you will. Like, worms."_ _

_ _Martin makes a face of confusion, and beckons her to continue. Tim, who has definitely already heard the news, shivers exaggeratedly. "Can we not talk about the worms right now? I'm trying to enjoy this deliciously cold crab rangoon." _ _

_ _"I went to talk to Elias about it a few days ago and he told me not to worry. I started getting worried. Like, there was a whole bunch of them trying to burrow under one of the doors in artefact storage a few days ago," she continues despite Tim's plea, scooping up a pile of noodles, "I couldn't handle it. I told him I wasn't coming back in until the issue was fixed or, at the very least, I was moved from artefact handling."_ _

_ _"So who's in artefacts now?"_ _

_ _"Dunno." Sasha shrugs. "Don't care, either." _ _

_ _And maybe that's a good way to live. _ _

_ _The rest of the day carries on._ _

_ _(Today, Martin does not bring Jon that chocolate latte, because when he returns to the Institute without Georgie, he slips into his office without a word to anyone and stays overtime.)_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP MARTIN'S CHOCOLATE LATTE MIX ): 
> 
> georgies here! so are martin's convoluted emotional responses! & sasha is back!!! and tim and jon are here too !! listen... i love miss barker and i am 100% declaring that she, shortly after learning jon worked at the institute, really just wanted to stop by and harass jon for an hour


	5. willow blend clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wait," Jon says hastily, and it's close to a shout. Martin stops at the foot of the door, heart pounding in his chest. He turns back to see Jon looming over his desk. Martin... well, he is sitting in anticipation. 
> 
> Jon picks up the mug of cold willow blend clover and takes a sip.
> 
> "Ew. 4/10."
> 
> Alright.

Martin had decided, laying awake at home in the warmth of his bed, in the early hours of the morning where birds start chirping and the sky begins to get light, that Jon probably wouldn't have liked the chocolate latte anyway.

He keeps that thought with him as he rolls out of bed and stretches in the dim gleam of the rising sun, and he takes it into the shower and out again, and puts it on hold to give a little thought into his appearance today. Same outfit like always: glasses, warm sweater over a white button-up, jeans, and boots that make him just a bit taller, and same hairstyle, too, tied back out of his face with his fringe pinned back and out of his eyes. 

A couple of curly strands fall out of his ponytail, landing against his cheek as he grabs his phone off of his bedside table to check the time. It's eight in the morning. He's right on schedule. There's also a text notification from Sasha reminding him to smile today. 

Sasha only does that when she's worried about Martin's mental state, but he opts to ignore the fact that his recent distress has been apparently, noticeable, and, instead, focuses on the fact that Sasha is a very good friend. He sends a smiley face back to her as he makes his way to the kitchen. 

He is in the kitchen, of course, to select a coffee to make Jon today.

_Yes,_ it's ridiculous. _Yes,_ Martin is a little tense right now over everything that happened yesterday. Martin is upset -- not with Jon specifically, but with the circumstances regarding Georgie, sure -- but he is also reliable and, at the same time, averse to change. He also worries about Jon a fair bit. Letting Jon go without a check-in and something warm to drink while he's on his break... well, Martin would rather be caught in war crossfire. 

Martin opens two of his cupboards to begin his search.

Martin's cabinets hold... a lot. Opening them up and taking a step back, he feels proud. Accomplished, even, to have all of these things.

It's fair to take Martin as somewhat of a hoarder, although he'd much rather prefer _'frantically organized collector,'_ because his cabinets are insanely neat; in his cabinets, there are excessive amounts of spices and trinkets and nonperishable foods and pretty bowls from flea markets. If he can fit it into his budget, he will buy it. As a child, he was used to everything being bare; kitchen cupboards used to hold dust, medicine and canned soup. Now, if something runs out, he'll just purchase something bigger to replace it. 

Hell. It's his money. He doesn't have much of it, but it's his. 

(He still feels strange about it, sometimes).

Okay. Right. Coffee. Martin clears his throat and focuses back to the task at hand, wiping his palms on the front of his jeans. Something ordinary, Martin figures. Something simple and sweet. Jon likes sweet things. 

He scans the cabinet shelves full of teas, coffees, and other miscellaneous beverage-related things, like a Garfield-shaped tea infuser Tim got him as a holiday present that he refuses to use. For someone who drinks the same thing everyday _\-- that is, earl grey tea, which is what Jon drinks everyday, --_ it turns out that Martin has a lot of damn coffee put away. 

Like, a concerning amount.

Some are gifts from, of course, Sasha, who probably likes coffee the most out of anyone at the Institute and just assumes that everyone does as well, but most of them are things he's picked up at the store himself, intending to try them but never getting the chance. He skips his gaze over a few chais, a sampling bag of Caffe Verona... and coffee flavored tea? Martin squints with disgust and keeps looking.

It's there, on the very bottom row, that Martin makes his choice. Willow Blend Clover. Martin's only tried it once and the taste was alright. Plain and milky and tasted like honey. It's grinds are sitting in a lime green tin, looking almost as full as the day he'd bought it; if he recalls correctly, this is meant to be an iced coffee, but Martin figures it's much too cold out for it to be prepared like that. 

That's one thing he won't be chastised for. Mispreparing coffee. Martin almost scoffs at the thought. Making coffee is just about the only thing he actually knows how to do correctly. 

With Jon's preferences in mind -- worryingly, tooth-achingly sweet -- Willow Blend Clover seems as good of a choice as any, but a feeling of doubt hits Martin in the back of the head while he reaches for the coffee tin to throw into his messenger bag.

What if Jon doesn't like it?

Martin rolls his eyes, mostly at himself, but partially at the sheer ridiculousness that this situation is composed of, and wills himself to throw the tin in his bag so he can just go to work. 

Jon doesn't like anything.

Except for Georgie. He likes Georgie, a voice echoes somewhere in the back of his head, and he immediately wants to call in sick and crawl back underneath the covers.

* * *

It's Martin's intent to give Jon his coffee and leave.

He doesn't plan on lingering in the doorway trying to prolong an impersonal stay (with minor tones of unrequited romantic feelings) like he normally does. 

As much as he would like to, there are far too many things eating at him. The guilt of not liking Georgie, although she seems just fine, and his obvious, immediate jealousy that Jon might've picked up on by now, and how absolutely sick in love he is with Jon, and also the residue of how upset he was that he wasn't able to give Jon that chocolate latte--

He wouldn't have liked it anyway, he tries to remind himself. 

Martin will just set the coffee down.

Then he will turn around and go. 

Martin taps twice on the door with the toe of his boot. There is no reply from Jon, as per usual, but instead there is a soft shuffling followed by the sound of something hard and thick being dropped to the floor. Martin creases his brows together but doesn't have time to sit and ponder or even be nervous about going in without getting a verbal welcoming, because he's severely under-estimated just how hot coffee in a poorly insulated mug can be, and his palm is burning. 

With his free hand, he opens the door quickly. It creaks loudly as it swings open, but Jon doesn't seem to notice. 

The office is chaos. Moreso than usual. Most of the books from the bookshelf are cleared completely. Martin can hardly see some parts of the floor. The wood is crowded with paper and rubbish and so many tape recorders. He is now down to one working lightbulb in the office, flickering like it's on it's last life, and Martin so desperately wishes that he would just say something to Elias.

And Jon is standing on the tips of his toes, reaching up, either trying to take a box of items down or trying to push them to the top, Martin is not too sure. He is really small, Martin reassesses. 

Martin makes a bee-line towards Jon's desk, carefully avoiding tall stacks of what he assumes are copies of unrecorded statements and literature -- there's still no coaster in sight; Martin wonders who's shoulders that's meant to fall on. Does he bring his own coaster? Is Jon supposed to have one here already? Does he even care if the coffee mug leaves a ring of heat damage on the desk? It's been half a year since Martin's started doing all of this and he's never had the courage to ask. 

His palms are so hot, though, so he just puts the mug down. 

It's only then, with the sound of ceramic hitting wood, that Jon turns around, startled.

"Martin!" 

"Hi, Jon," Martin says simply, "Coffee."

"Ah, I can't wait to be disappointed again!" Jon exclaims with mock excitement. Martin doesn't smile. He hasn't all day, which is going against the instructions of Sasha's morning text, and he sort of feels bad about that. 

After awhile, Jon clears his throat awkwardly, which punches Martin in the gut. And now the situation is compromising, so Martin tries to break the ice the only way he knows how. By getting Jon to talk about himself.

"What are you up to?" Martin asks, "besides cleaning, I mean. Why are you cleaning?"

"Oh. Yesterday, Georgie told me that the office was a little bit of an embarrassment," Martin bites his tongue, literally, to stop from frowning at the mention of Georgie, which has quite the opposite effect -- he winces, but Jon doesn't pay much attention to it. "I suppose she's right."

Martin scans the room with his eyes. One word. Messy. Maybe the observation looked a bit judgmental on Martin's end, because Jon launches into a defense of the area.

"I'm just... fixing up some things. It's taking awhile," he explains, pivoting on his heel to face the bookshelf he was working on before Martin arrived, "Gertrude left this place in utter disarray. I just let it be because all these things were hers. It feels disrespectful, somehow, to move it all out of the way. It's not like I've got anything of my own to bring here. But I suppose I'm the head archivist now, and it's time for me to act like it."

Martin is quiet for a moment, staring at the back of Jon's dull pink knitted jumper he pulls a pile of books from the shelf and crouches down to tuck them away haphazardly in a small box. 

That was... thoughtful of him to say. 

"Yeah," Martin says quietly after awhile, for lack of a better acknowledgement, and then trails into something else in order to keep momentum of the conversation, "Er, the coffee is Willow Blend Clover? Four sugars. Regular milk." 

"Okay," he says. Martin fights the urge to roll his eyes; Jon almost never says thank you, so he's unsure why it's irritating him, today of all days, that he hadn't. Maybe it's his overall bad mood. Is it wrong that the bad mood is just simply about Georgie?

He's got to get it together.

"Here," Jon is in front of Martin in the blink of an eye, holding a pile of hardback books. He struggles to hand them over, but when they're in Martin's hands, they're not heavy at all. "Put these books on my desk."

And without a second thought, Martin does just that. 

Naturally. 

He walks a few steps to put the books down neatly at the far left corner of Jon's desk. He also takes it upon himself, more out of atmospheric habit than anything, to neaten up the pre-existing mess there. He tosses a few chewed-end pens into an empty pen holder, fixes unkempt binders and manila folders, and stops a tape recorder that wasn't on when he first stepped in. God, the tape recorders. They are everywhere. He makes a point to pick them all up, too, and moves them to an unoccupied corner of the room.

Then Martin does some more. He moves to the floor around the desk and cleans that up, too; crumpled papers, candy wrappers, and busted batteries get thrown in the bin near the door. Speaking of the door, there are books thrown about everywhere. Why are there so many books? He piles them up until they're about half his height, looking at the cover of each one to decide their importance, and then lifts them with all his might and does as he saw Jon do earlier: dumps them into an empty cardboard box and shoves said box aside. 

Once Martin starts, he does not stop.

Jon and Martin work well like that, back and forth with quiet rhythm. 

Avoiding each other's paths of work isn't quite the right word for the way they clean, because their paths do certainly cross. Jon switches between deciding where things go and sweeping obsessively while Martin trails behind him, putting extra care into making small things neat, catching things Jon may have missed. 

They bump into each other's sides softly while trying to get to opposite corners of the room, and _Jon_ is the one to mutter a sorry. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder reordering Gertrude's old decorations on side-tables, and Martin feels warm, but at least his hands don't begin to tremble. Jon ducks and weaves fast behind and besides and around Martin's slow, attentively paced tidying, and they are two parts of one machine, well oiled and functioning effectively. 

It is silent. Jon doesn't speak, so Martin doesn't, either. And it's alright that way. Not many things need to be thought of when you're busy tucking things away. Not many things need to be said when you are moving like they do. 

And time passes by, like time tends to do; very very fast.

"It's been two hours," Jon declares abruptly, which throws Martin off of his rhythm, and he drops a book right onto his foot. Jon smiles wryly as Martin hisses back a line of very strongly worded sentences.

Two hours?

So much for giving Jon his coffee and leaving.

When he comes to, he realizes that he can see most of the floor now. And it is not as dusty as it usually is. All of the work they've been doing didn't really register to Martin in the moment. Jon gestures to the clean area grandly, "Probably would have taken a shorter amount of time if Gertrude didn't have so many books. Seriously, what woman needs this many books?" 

Martin shrugs. "Maybe they're just here for aesthetics. You know, a cozy, vintage library type of feel." 

"Doubt she was one for interior design," Jon snorts, "look at that rug over there." 

Martin does, in fact, see the very ugly rug. 

Jon reaches for a random journal, a spare one tossed on his desk, and it is... gorgeous. Weathered and worn, to the point where you can see the bridges of the weaving laying in the fabric. It is burnt orange and scruffed up. One white flower is painted in the corner, small and chipping away. It's perfectly imperfect. Almost antique, the way the edges fray. It's been through a lot.

Jon seems to notice how frail it is, too. He opens it with care. 

There, on the inside cover, are a few lines scribbled hastily in ink. Jon's breath catches in his throat, something Martin can hear, and something changes. Everything changes. Jon's voice goes incredibly soft and careful as he reads. 

_"There shall be for thee all soft delight,"_ everything is low and smooth, and the word delight is misspelled, scribbled out, and rewritten again, _"that shadowy thought can win. A bright torch, and a casement ope at night..."_

_"...to let the warm love in."_ Martin follows, and clasps his hands together with a look of utter appreciation. "Keats. Ode to Psyche?"

Jon scoffs. "As if I know anything about Keats." He flicks through the rest of the book quickly with his thumb, feeling all of the pages before he closes it again with a resigned sound.

"The rest of this is empty. Is that the whole poem? I feel as though it's... incomplete."

"It is," Martin tells him. He tries to limit his explanations, "incomplete, I mean. There's more to the poem, and more odes to go along with it -- four more, actually. Grecian Urn, Nightingale, Melancholy and Indolence, I think?"

Jon hums disapprovingly, but something in his gaze is gentle as he says, "I don't see the appeal. Of the odes, specifically. They're too dreamy for my taste, like he's lost in the clouds, writing about, what, sadness and sorrow?"

"Not just sorrow! Don't you dare talk that way about the Ode to Melancholy. That one's about contemplation on the shortness of life and--"

"You have exactly thirty more seconds to say something meaningful about John Keats."

"Alright, the odes. They're sort of... lofty and metaphysical," Martin confesses, ducking his head and messing nervously with the hem of his jumper, picking at loose strands and shifting his weight from foot to foot, "Well, I-- I like them. It's all universal. Things, good things, that most everyone experiences or thinks about. Pride, beauty, truth, duality human nature... And, Ode to Psyche, about love and expression of self."

"Well," Jon starts quickly, and it sounds like he's almost having a hard time breathing, "then, you should have it."

What?

"Why?" 

"You like it," Jon says, in the same tone that Martin had used earlier, but it doesn't sound like he's mocking him, "you should have it. It's blank. You could use it as an, um, log of sorts? You write poetry, don't you?"

Martin sort of just stares. 

"I guessed," he mutters, and shoves the book into Martin's hands before he can protest again. The tips of his ears are getting red, and Martin himself is a bit too dazed at the gesture to blush. As soon as he accepts the book, Jon pulls his hands back and shoves them into his pockets. "Readers are usually writers too. Take it." 

"Thank you," Martin says, and holds it in both hands, pressing it to his chest. 

And it's quiet again, comfortable but heavy. Not many things need to be said when you feel like this. Jon surveys the room like it's the largest accomplishment he's made this year, and the surety of his expression makes Martin feel all light and fluffy. Jon seems to catch eye of the white mug sitting on his desk.

"I forgot you made me coffee. I always do that, don't I?" he says with a far-off grin. "Gone cold."

"It's okay," Martin remarks, "it's meant to be iced anyway." 

"I kept you for long," Jon states quietly, "I appreciate your help."

Acknowledgement. It's not quite a thank you, but...

...oh, who is he fucking kidding. It's more than a thank you. 

And Martin feels like that's all he deserves, so he takes his leave. He turns right around and heads for the door because this is as much as he can take. It's as much as Jon should be willing to give him. His face is getting hotter by the second and that fluttery feeling in him is so strong that it's making him sick, and the shame from feeling this way is completely overshadowed by the fact that the depths of his heart feels like a butterfly garden. 

Martin struggles to find the words to thank Jon for thanking him, so he hums inappropriately loud in response. 

"Wait," Jon says hastily, and it's close to a shout. Martin stops at the foot of the door, heart pounding in his chest. He turns back to see Jon looming over his desk. Martin... well, he is sitting in anticipation. 

Jon picks up the mug of cold willow blend clover and takes a sip. 

"Ew. 4/10."

Alright.

Martin ends up smiling today after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG FUCKING CHAPTER TO COMPENSATE FOR THE LATE UPDATE i try to have these up around 12-3 pm est but this one was a little slow to come up with oops sorry. this apology is in the form of 3.2k words unbeta'd i'll go back and fix any errors later
> 
> solo martin + lots of jonmartin in this one... georgie guilt... it's all here folks! i hope you enjoy this one!! p.s. willow blend clover is my fav cold starbux drink
> 
> by the way!! i'm @mcwebby on tumblr (:


	6. white mocha cappuccino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At once, Georgie is in his personal space, leaning in to see what Martin's response is. He adjusts his glasses, squints at his screen, and kindly paraphrases for her. "He says... to get a white mocha cappuccino, extra whipped cream."

Jon hates the Marble Barista, a massive cafe besides a shopping strip in some embarrassingly affluent neighborhood, for no good reason other than the fact that it is a coffee shop so tall that it has an escalator inside. 

He would rather be anywhere but here. 

...But Georgie lives in Notting Hill, an equally-as-prosperous district, and this is the only place between his flat and hers that seemed like a good place to meet on his day off from the Institute. A day off well earned, not authorized by the archival district itself through Elias, but by the Institute itself.

Apparently, he had worked too much.

That's all the email had said.

Georgie and Jon had decided, at the end of their little seafood lunch rendezvous awhile back, to meet up again. They'd solidified plans over a two minute phone call where Jon barely had room to give his input about it.

"Glad you picked a cafe. Much more attuned to my tastes," Jon confesses as he leans back in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankles. He makes a show of taking a wide, open look at the environment around him, an eyebrow arched as he takes in his surroundings. "Better than seafood." 

The Marble Barista is... considerably less homely than the cafes around the Institute. Capitalistic. Massive. The floors are sleek, pale tile, terribly bright and clean and sterile, and Jon thinks he tracked in some mud behind him on his way in twenty minutes ago. 

It's an impersonal, general sort of discomfort, the type you get when you are obviously out of place. He does not belong here, in his low-priced slacks and scuffed boots, even though he made somewhat of an effort to present himself nicely; he'd even took great care in styling his hair today, pushing the salt-and-pepper strands up and back, pinned behind his ear. 

And, the Marble Barista, although neat and pleasant, is a cafe with no heart. Where there should be tall, wooden bookshelves stocked with handmade mugs painted by baristas are, instead, pieces of tasteless abstract art. Instead of low, natural light flooding in from too-big windows, there are oversized modern chandeliers, tacky and golden and harshly fluorescent. 

It turns out that it's hard to stare at lights that bright for more than thirty seconds at a time, so he looks down and away. 

It's strangely empty. Emptier, even, given it's a Sunday afternoon. Jon wonders if it's always like this, and he continues to survey the area: it seems that they're the only ones in here, save for a quaint, chatty college-aged study group by the window and the tall goth cashier swaying to the contemporary jazz playing through speakers, happily counting through the tipjar. 

Jon sort of smiles at that.

"Uh, wrong," Georgie corrects, snapping him out of his survey of the interior of the cafe and crossing her arms over her chest. Her thin, gold bracelets catch the light and clink together. "I loved The Savory Squid! Their sushi was the best I've ever had. You wouldn't know because you refused to eat some. You sat and had chicken fingers like a ten year old."

"I like chicken fingers," Jon frowns matter-of-factly, and Georgie scoffs. "Plus, I did have some seafood. You forcefed me a California roll--"

"I did not forcefeed you! You asked me if you could have some--"

"--could barely taste it because it was buried in wasabi. Which I'm sure you did out of spite."

"I did." 

She smiles, happy and wide, and the white of her teeth contrasts again the cherry red of her glossy lipstick. It's a familiar look, so some of Jon's stress begins to melt away.

It's easy to be around Georgie, he remembers. There's something simple and comforting about her; maybe it's the fact that she smells like vanilla, like his childhood home did. (All of the best things smell like vanilla.) Or maybe it's her open demeanor, one that hasn't changed after all these years, enthusiastic and friendly, that draws him in. Very suddenly, he's glad that he's here. 

"So, we've kind of been sitting here, a little idle," she brings up, adjusting the pale pink scarf around her neck. It looks expensive, soft and silky, and it matches the color of her long, painted nails. Jon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I mean, we did all of our catching up on our last date. Traded all of those 'how's the mum's and the 'do you like your job?' type of things."

Jon nods.

"...You hook up with anyone lately?"

Alright. 

He is no longer glad that he's here.

"Christ, Georgie. I don't hook up," Jon mutters exasperatedly, running a hand down his face and scratching at stubble on the underside of his chin that's hardly there, "we meet back up for the first time in a year and you want to know how my love life's going?"

"I'm just curious. Why are you pretending like that's weird?" Georgie snorts. The displeased look on Jon's face goes absolutely, positively unmatched; his pout is fierce and his eyebrows are low, scrunched together and disappointed, and once Georgie sees its' full ferocity, she tosses her head back to laugh some more. She's always been the type to gain delight from someone else's anguish -- namely, Jon's. "I'm your ex and we're friends and I'm nosy. What is with you and this whole dating thing, Jon?" 

"I'm, er, well, I'm--" Jon bristles, and tries to compose a sentence that won't embarrass him half to death. Georgie sits quietly and patiently as he formulates a proper response. 

Jon's idea of love... well, it's not particularly complicated. 

Is it?

He leans back into his seat and runs a hand through his hair, mussing the neat style he'd put a little bit of work into for the occasion. Jon curses to himself under his breath.

Love is impractical. Jon has read enough love stories, has been in enough failed relationships to realize that it's meant to make you do things you wouldn't. It takes control of every emotion you have. It eats up all your time and consumes you whole, makes you a caricature of the you that you once were. By the very end you'll just be a shell of yourself, hollow and empty and alone, again.

Just like you were before. 

What desire is there in giving somebody your all, left to mull over the inevitability of departure when things get hard? He just doesn't understand the appeal in reliance and vulnerability; maybe it's because he's been hurt before, Jon considers. Not being enough hurts, and Jon doesn't like to hurt, if he can help it.

Another issue is that love is not clear-cut, easily explainable and simple. There's a certain ambiguity to it. People express their affection in different ways, feel it with varying intensities, open themselves up and turn themselves inside out to show they care, and it can be too much to even think about. Jon figures that if there were rules to ardor and chivalry, and an alarm to signal the arrival of both, he could make things easier on himself. 

Jon's mind starts to wander into some uncharted territory.

He doesn't quite remember the name of his first boyfriend. Carrigan, or Colton, or maybe it was Charlie? Probably Charlie. It was long ago, but he had liked him a fair bit, spending every waking moment in close proximity to him, in his orbit. That was more infatuation than anything, he realizes now. 

They had their first kiss in a phone booth on an unnamed street, chaste and awkward and uncomfortably cramped. A week later, Charlie had decided that boys just weren't his thing, and admitted to Jon that he was an experiment. It makes Jon grimace.

A few years later, in the midst of Oxford, there was Georgie. 

Things were simple at first. It was easy to be with Georgie. Jon liked her just as well as everyone else did; she was well-grounded, sure of herself, decisive when it counted, a hard worker, and brilliantly pretty. She was understanding. Reasonable. Intelligent. But she was also sentimental and idealistic, and out of all of her traits, Jon didn't know how to keep up those two the most.

Georgie's friends would get bouquets and expensive chocolate for Valentine's Day, extravagant dates in foreign places, intimacy when it mattered most, and Georgie's frustrated, tipsy remarks about how Jon didn't do anything like that for her grew more and more frequent the longer they were together. She would often tell him, with a tall glass of wine in one hand and the other on her hip, that she had choices, that she deserved better, and that she needed more than whatever Jon was -- or, rather, wasn't offering.

Of course, she was right. Georgie is always right, Jon's conscience reminds him with a bitter bite. 

He tried. It wasn't enough, but he tried to be there for her, give her what she needed and treat her how she wanted to be treated. In the end, his ignorance must've communicated as a sincere lack of care, an utter disregard for her altogether. After a year, they were done. He was alone, again, with nothing to do and nobody to turn to. All of Georgie's activities were his activities, all of her friends were his friends, and... all of his things were in her off-campus flat, and she insisted on keeping most of it. 

They're friends now. They aren't as close as they used to be, but they really do get along despite everything that's happened. He can't, for the life of him, remember how they ended up where they are today, but Jon chalks it up to a common line of work: spirits and the esoteric, and Jon supposes that's how they ended up crossing paths again after all these years. 

...And then he thinks about Martin -- Martin, of all people, -- and starts feeling ill. Terminally ill.

He feels nauseous.

"Jon?" Georgie asks, tapping rhythmically on the table in front of him with her long, coffin-shaped nails to get his attention. "Earth to Jon." 

"What?" Jon finally comes to, blinking rapidly until his vision becomes decidedly less blurry. He adjusts his glasses with the back of his wrist. Georgie is leaned in a little closer than before, her chin propped up by the palm of her hand and her light hazel eyes boring into his. Her stare has always been intense. 

"Sorry. I tried to let you do your thing but you looked like you were dying or something," Georgie prods at him, and Jon scoffs before her voice goes a little gentler, soothing and low, "you alright?"

"I'm alright," Jon insists, ignoring the rickety feeling in his stomach, looking away from her curiously intense gaze and to the floor, "what were we saying?"

"I was asking you what your deal was with dating," she reiterates.

"Oh," Jon remembers abruptly. He waves his hand in the air as if to dismiss the conversation entirely, but there's a little bit of shame in his voice when he admits, "I haven't dated anyone since we broke up."

"Awww," Georgie coos, and leans in with exaggerated amour across the small table between them, "are you still madly in love with me? It's okay. I understand completely."

Jon supplies her with a Look, and flatly replies, "I just haven't found anyone. I'm not quite looking, either. At this point, I think I'd prefer to be alone."

"God," she tsks, "that is so sad, Jon."

Ouch.

"Shut up."

"I'll tell you what's going on in my love life since I've actually got one and I know you're not going to ask, so," she starts, and Jon is a little taken aback. Georgie leans to the side to reach into her messenger purse, hung on the back of her seat. She plucks out her phone, sitting in a bright, blindingly yellow case. She unlocks it with the pad of her thumb against the home button -- which, quite frankly, freaks Jon out -- and she navigates through it as she continues to speak, "I've been talking to this lass named Mel. She's really... well, Christ, I don't know. I like her a lot."

She hands her phone to Jon. 

There on the screen, Jon guesses, is Melanie. She's freckled and small and her dark, curly hair is cut short. Her bangs are long, a little too grown out for her heart-shaped face, covering up the majority of her thin eyebrows. She looks like an unkempt doll. There are headphones around her neck and her grin is wicked, as though she's hungry for a fight, and it doesn't quite match up with the purity of her wide eyes and blushed lips. 

Melanie looks too familiar. 

"That's Melanie King," he suddenly notes, not too aware of where he's dredging up this information from, "Ghost Hunt UK. Really, Georgie, you're dating Melanie King?" 

The Institute and Ghost Hunt UK aren't on particularly good terms, although the Institute is its' senior. The archival department in particular has had a few particular run-ins with Ghost Hunt. Encounters have been mostly composed of new interns wandering in, searching for historical information and leaving with a handful of statements about meat, wounded feelings, and an unsettled feeling in their stomach. But that happens to everyone, doesn't it?

The lovely individuals over at Ghost Hunt UK had decided that, since the Institute was rarely helpful, that a negative shoutout slandering the building at the end of their most popular video -- something about Jack the Ripper's ghost victims -- was necessary. 

"Yes, I'm dating Melanie King -- would you stop making that face? I know you don't like the ghost hunting thing, or the Youtube thing -- oh, would you cut it out?" Georgie pouts as Jon emotes over-enthusiastically, and kicks him under the table lightly with the tip of her sharp heel. "Nevermind. I can't tell you anything."

They play footsy under the table for awhile until Georgie kicks Jon a little too hard, and while he tries to hide it, the pain on his face is obvious. She covers her hand with the back of her hand to laugh. 

"I'm thirsty," Jon mentions after a few moments pass, once all of the giggling dies down. 

"I'll go get us something to drink," Georgie glances around to check if there's a line at the front counter, as if she's just remembered that they are at a cafe, "my treat. You used to drink earl grey all the time, do you still want that?"

"No," Jon says quickly, sort of without thought, and Georgie raises a brow. It even takes him by surprise. He pushes to elaborate. "I mean, I haven't been having tea lately."

"Oh?" She shoots back. "What would you like instead, then?"

"Coffee," Jon says, "although, I'm not sure what type."

"You hate coffee. Christ, Sims, what's happened to you?"

He thinks about Martin, again, lingering in the doorway, brushing shoulders with him fixing up the office, the way his curls frame his face and how he shifts his weight from foot to foot at the copying machine--

"I sort of made a bet," Jon explains, as much as he would like to withhold this information from Georgie, only because of the sheer nature of it. He somehow starts to feel a little shy, picking at an imaginary loose thread on his sweater sleeve to occupy his hands, "a bet with... Martin. He usually brings me my tea everyday, but he said he could make me a cup of coffee that I'd like, which is ridiculous, and I told him so. He's been insistent. Or, erm -- I've been insistent. I've yet to have something good, but I enjoy his effort. I think."

"Martin?" Georgie prompts.

"Coworker." 

"Was it that big lad in the knit pullover? He looks like a Martin. He looked real homespun -- sort of cute, in a bearish type of way." Georgie recalls, idly as she scrolls through her own texts and types in a short response to somebody with the pad of her thumb. Jon, for a reason unbeknownst to him, inhales sharply and goes tense around the shoulders. His face is going hot, all the way down to the base of his neck, at the thought of Martin in association with a word like that. Cute. 

Is Martin cute?

His heart starts to pound, and the rhythmic tapping of nail-on-screen stops abruptly and Georgie peers up at him, "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" 

"Why'd you bridle like that?"

"I didn't."

"You did!" she insists in a tone that's inappropriately loud, and Jon looks around to see if anyone notices or even cares -- they don't. Georgie quickly puts her phone down on the table and clicking it off. "You're absolutely rigid. Your shoulders are up by your ears. You look like The Admiral after a bath."

"Well, I--"

"You what? You--" Georgie's voice is teetering the edge of accusation, but Jon doesn't quite know what for. The table is quiet until something like realization settles over her features, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. "Oh," she finally says.

"What?" 

Her smile is knowing. What she thinks she knows is up for debate. "Jon... are you and Ma--"

No.

Whatever Georgie's about to say, Jon does not want to hear it. 

"Georgie," Jon interrupts, because he just can't take it, and tries to come up with any excuse to divert her attention from whatever she was going to say. Unfortunately, the first thing he comes up with makes his heart stutter, which is a definite issue and he should really consider going to the doctors soon, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself:

"You know what? I think I'm going to text Martin and ask him what I should get to drink. Just... tell me what to say." 

"Look at you, Jon, making moves!"

"Oh, my god. Just tell me what to say." 

Georgie barely has to think about her response, and Jon guesses that's sort of typical.

"Tell him you're out. Right now. And you'd like to know what type of coffee you should get. No, not like that -- what the hell? Delete that. Tell him I said hello, by the way. Wait, not like that, that makes me sound mean. Jon!" She exclaims and covers her mouth with her hand out of sheer disbelief. "Christ!" 

Jon deletes the nasty remark about Georgie from the end of his text with a small, smug grin, and and tries again. He comes up with a well structured message, Jon would like to think. Simple, precise, and to the point. Before he can think better of it, he presses send, and immediately feels like he's going to throw up. 

And then he turns off his phone.

"Anyway," Georgie rejoins her questioning. "Jon, you can tell me the truth. Do you... well, are you and Martin--"

She goes on like that, trying to formulate her words the right way, for a little too long.

At some point, Jon's phone buzzes, abrupt and loud against the wood of the table, and he's glad for a distraction, although it does make him jump a bit. He shoves Georgie's impending question out of his mind and scoops phone up with both hands. At once, Georgie is in his personal space, leaning in to see what Martin's response is. He adjusts his glasses, squints at his screen, and kindly paraphrases for her. "He says... to get a white mocha cappuccino, extra whipped cream."

What is with Martin and all this damned whipped cream?

"Okay," Georgie smiles bright. Does she ever stop smiling? Jon works down the urge to ask her why because he has a feeling he will not like the response, "Okay. I'll go get that for us. But... Jon?"

"Yes, Georgie," he sighs out, as if he's annoyed, but his heart is thumping away in his chest.

"How's Martin make you feel?"

"Terrible," Jon confesses, and presses his palms to his cheeks, "like I've got the flu. I can't think around him and I get anxious, but-- but I don't dismiss him, or anything. It's not my fault I get like that. But I don't like it. And I don't know why it happens."

Georgie cackles into her palm, high and light and mocking as she stands. She pats her front pocket, checking for her wallet, and nodding to herself when she realizes it's there, "You've got it bad, Jon Sims. I'll go get you your white mocha cappuccino. I think I'll get one, too."

Jon is left feeling queasy in this massive fucking cafe, confused and upset and overwhelmed and jittery and-- 

His phone buzzes again, and he peers forward to look at the notification. It's from Martin.

'i hope youre having a good day jon! (:'

Oh, hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (disappears for two weeks in a row & then returns with a full georgie&jon chapter) hi
> 
> sorry for lagging behind on updates! ihope this one makes up for it (there’ll be another one this Sunday too!)


	7. pumpkin spice latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I guess that's your coffee for today," Martin half-jokes, "won't be coming in to see you, then. Enjoy your Martin-free afternoon."
> 
> Apparently, Jon doesn't think that's funny.
> 
> He looks up and at Martin with some sort of conviction -- a furrowed brow, searching eyes, an anxious twitch to his upper lip -- just as the bottle drops from its' hold and rolls to the the front of the hold on vending machine. He's tensed up a considerable amount. More than usual. 
> 
> It would be intimidating, physically, if Jon weren't so short. It's intimidating, emotionally, because the last thing Martin wants to do is rub Jon the wrong way, especially without knowing why. He thought it was funny. Maybe he should stop making jokes.
> 
> Martin wants to apologize for whatever he did wrong.

Martin likes the breakroom. 

The walls of the room are far taller than the walls anywhere else in the archives, towering high and covered in lurid, 60's-themed floral wallpaper. The floor is littered with scuff marks, some of which Martin can fondly recall the history of every time he enters the room; near the door, there's a low dent in the floor where Sasha's heel had snagged between a loose board and snapped in two. Near the tables is a dark pool of water damage, from when the ceiling started to cave in and leak last spring. 

The shelves that hang over the sink on the left wall are overstocked with random non-perishables, far too many biscuits that Tim has mentioned liking in passing and, of course, tea. The fact that there's too much of everything is Martin's fault; whenever anyone mentions an affordable craving, Martin comes back with a box of it and then some. 

There's a poorly constructed, stark white Ikea coffee table with chairs placed around it, obviously pretending to be a proper place to eat. It's where the assistants are supposed to take their lunch -- they've taken to not doing that, and Elias, gracefully, has decided to turn a blind eye. As if to apologize for the mere suggestion of it, there's been a shiny new vending machine in the corner. 

Everything inside of it is less than appealing, but it has it's charm. Objectively ugly, cluttered but clean, and little retro in the worst ways. When things get to be too much in the rest of the Institute, Martin finds that he can always find refuge here. 

Martin shifts all of his weight from one foot to the other, flipping absentmindedly through the stack of papers in his hand. They're all files, dropped on his desk by Elias at some point the former afternoon and labelled for inevitable destruction.

(They're mostly complaints.)

Some are written by employees, meant specifically for HR. Martin flicks through a paper-clipped stack of strongly worded two-week-notices, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. There are several from Rosie, the front desk attendant; they've been stamped with _VOID_ in bright red ink, as if it were a miswritten check. 

Others are directed towards the quality of the research that the Institute itself conducts. When he gets to those, marked _'to shred'_ at the top in Elias' nearly illegible scrawl, Martin tries not to focus on the fact that a lot of the cases mentioned are ones that he had to work on alone. 

Most of them, though, are addressed directed to Mr. Bouchard himself, written with varying degrees of politeness but all conveying the same amount of exhaustion or upset about many, many different topics. These are Martin's least favorite to read; he finds that they're all unimaginably tedious, usually discussing the funding for the Institute or the delightful intricacies of property rights.

Well, Martin figures, not _everything_ can be interesting. 

He tugs at the hem unraveling edge of his dull blue jumper as he reviews a three-page concern from a Mr. Lukas with vague disinterest -- then he feeds it to the shredder, and it hums as it chews through the paper, sluggish and low. 

Past the whir of documents being torn to pieces, there's a noise from behind him. And he figures that his moment of peace and idle reflection is over. 

It's walking. Little bit of shuffling, maybe. It's no clicking of heels on hardwood or a heavy set of boots making absolute sure that their presence known, so Martin is sure that the culprit is--

He turns to his side and, when he sees Jon, teetering absentmindedly where he stands, his heart flips over. 

Then he tries to shove it away.

Martin would like to think that he has gotten better, lately, at pretending that the way he feels about Jon doesn't exist. It's simple. He just... won't like him back, and that's something he's gotten more comfortable with. He tries to ignore the way everything in him jumps when he thinks about him, his strange, domineering charm, his admirable -- if not sometimes harmful -- work ethic, the excitement and curiosity that leaks through in his tone whenever discussing statements -- 

His palms grow a little clammy. He places the half-gone stack of papers on the edge of the shredder, and before he can stop himself, Martin is looking Jon up and down.

He's dressed in uncharacteristically leisurely clothes. The hoodie he's wearing fits him wrong, like it's not his. The sleeves are too long and so he's bunched them up at the elbow, but they keep slipping down, and his typical Mary Jane flats have been replaced with a pair of white trainers, scuffed at the toes. 

While the scruff on his chin, the bags under his eyes, and the forever-bored look on his face all preside, Jon's appearance seems to have been refined. His hair looks thoroughly brushed and full of volume, his face is clean and bright, and he's cleaned his glasses, usually partially clouded with office dust.

He looks, well...

...Good.

Martin tries to erase the thought from his head, partially because he feels a little dumb for not being able to elaborate on his thoughts, and mostly because he'd just told himself that he needs to put an end to all of this romantic mess. He starts over, in his mind, with incredibly pointed intent:

What Jon looks like is a normal guy. He doesn't seem the notorious head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, stuffy and stiff in a tartan sweater vest, overworking himself behind a pile of statements and skepticism. Of course, he's not quite removed from his slight librarian wiles or standoffish demeanor, but Martin wouldn't have him any other way. 

Also, Martin is more than sure that he's breaking work casual dress code, but it's not like Elias cares.

He wonders why Jon could possibly be dressed like this. He looks nice, sure, but Jon wasn't ever really the type to dress down, even on sick days or weekends where Sasha had firmly coerced him out on the town with the rest of the department.

_God,_ Martin thinks, _maybe I should just ask._

"Hi, Jon. Any special occasion today? You look... different."

Bad adjective, Blackwood. Him and Jon wince at the same time. 

Jon freezes up, shoves his hands into the oversized pockets of his hoodie. "Thank you," he supplies quietly, and then starts to trip over his words, "uh, no special-- erm, there's no--"

He looks underprepared for a situation like this, fumbling over every other word, side-eyeing Martin nervously as the plays with one of the belt loops on his trousers. It's as if he wasn't expecting to speak to Martin specifically, came in to just stand around and... look pretty, Martin supposes. Whatever the case, he feels bad about making him uncomfortable.

"S'okay! Sorry," Martin apologizes, "it's none of my business, really."

Jon opens his mouth, and closes it again, and looks frustrated with himself for a moment. Martin wonders what goes on inside that head of his. He hums instead, and turns a bit to look deep into the breakroom's vending machine. It looks like he's gazing steadfast at nothing in particular.

While the damn thing almost never has anything in it, everything it does hold is always fresh. It used to freak Martin out, but stranger things have happened since arriving to the archival department.

Martin tries again.

"Not much in there, is there. What are you thinking about getting?" Martin asks. 

"Nothing in particular." Jon's being short with him. That much is clear. Martin frowns without meaning to, trying to find out what he's done wrong already, and it's obvious to Jon that Martin's upset and it's his fault, because he adds on a very clumsy, "I, uh. Something to drink."

Something to drink.

Martin can work with that. 

His eyes scan the scant amount of products behind the glass. There's some Gatorade, some Swedish candy Tim's dared Martin to try at least twice, and coffee.

_Coffee._ Martin all but sighs with relief. 

"Oh! Have you ever tried that one?" He questions, and points to a bottle sitting behind the G3 label, some generic plastic-bottled coffee with a branding that Martin has never been able to pronounce the name of. "It's pumpkin spice, I think. It's sort of sweet. I think you'll like it."

Jon gives another neutral "hm."

"Here," Martin says, "my treat."

And before Jon can retaliate or refuse, he reaches into his own back pocket and thrusts three quid forward at him. It's just enough for him to get something.

Martin chooses to look away casually when Jon hesitantly decides to take the money to save himself from flustering over something as miniscule as their knuckles touching. 

Jon's hand lingers in Martin's own, small and gaunt and fingernails growing a bit too long. Martin is the one who pulls away first. Jon doesn't say thank you. He slides all of the money into the machine and presses G3.

"I guess that's your coffee for today," Martin half-jokes, "won't be coming in to see you, then. Enjoy your Martin-free afternoon."

Apparently, Jon doesn't think that's funny.

He looks up and at Martin with some sort of conviction -- a furrowed brow, searching eyes, an anxious twitch to his upper lip -- just as the bottle drops from its' hold and rolls to the the front of the hold on vending machine. He's tensed up a considerable amount. More than usual. 

It would be intimidating, physically, if Jon weren't so short. It's intimidating, emotionally, because the last thing Martin wants to do is rub Jon the wrong way, especially without knowing why. He thought it was funny. Maybe he should stop making jokes.

Martin wants to apologize for whatever he did wrong.

It's silent for awhile, until Jon headways into another conversation, almost begrudgingly.

"Have you got the research done on the Wolfe family?" Jon averts his eyes again with a snap, voice a bit low. His tone is sharp. Martin takes a step back and wants to shrink into himself, and watches Jon crouch down to get his coffee.

"Almost," his response is careful, "I can have that to you later today."

Jon opens the pumpkin spice coffee with a satisfying crack and, dubiously, takes a sip, as if there's a high chance it'll poison him to death. He doesn't emote much aside from an adorable scrunch of his nose. 

And then he leaves.

_"Alright,"_ Martin breathes out, confused and concerned. 

_Right, okay._ What was he doing before all of this happened?

Papers, breakroom, Elias, shredding. Shredding papers. _Right._

He gets back to work.

* * *

An hour later, Jon and Martin brush against each other at the water cooler, going opposite ways in the small hallway. 

Being so close to Jon makes the hallway feel, somehow, impossibly smaller. 

Their wrists touch, and Martin's heart jumps in his chest. Jon's not wearing his watch, the one with the brown leather strap that he loves to roll up his sleeve and check with disinterest whenever Martin talks to him about some new case for far too long. His nails are painted a deep, vibrant green. It matches his eyes. Some of the polish on his thumb is chipping away. 

Oh.

_That's new._

The feeling that sparks in Martin's chest is nothing shy of awe and admiration. 

"Sorry." Martin says softly, looking up from the place where their knuckles touched and away from Jon entirely, raising his hand to wave away his error. "Hi,"

Unreasonable embarrassment builds in the pit of his stomach and, absentmindedly, Martin touches his cheek, just in time to feel himself getting outrageously hot. Jon hums under his breath, neutral and uncharacteristically mild. Martin receives a peer over the top rim of glasses, wide-eyed and curious.

He's going to die here.

It's a look that's hard for Martin to parse. Jon looks a lot of different ways at a lot of different people -- there's approval, mostly for Sasha, amused dismay for Tim, and skeptical disappointment, mostly reserved for Martin himself. When Jon talks about Elias, he wears a snarl, which is very different from the polite smile he offers Rosie at the front door, and the dimpled grin that he offered Georgie a few days ago.

Martin searches for any bit of interest in Jon's face, any trace of any emotion Martin's used to, and... oh.

All at once, he supposes that staring at Jon for so long is impolite. Uncomfortably, he looks away.

“Um, ‘scuze me. Sorry.” Jon mutters, sounding meek and vaguely annoyed, and shrugs his sweater sleeve back down. "Getting more tapes from storage."

Jon's eyes are focused on the swirls in floor, and pushes past him with what seems like as much of his weight as he can muster. It doesn't shake Martin, but it startles him, a bit; not the rough physical contact, but maybe everything else.

* * *

"Martin," Tim says, voice marked with sincere distress as he rolls into Martin's space hastily, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. The wheels of the chair scrape against the wood floor and Martin snaps right out of his momentary disassociation.

Alright. Momentary is a rather generous understatement. 

He hasn't been paying attention to the file in front of him for -- he glances to the clock on the wall, ticking away -- about fifteen minutes now. He yawns, stretches in his seat, and wipes the blur away from both eyes with both hands. His glasses nearly fall off of his face.

"Mm," he hums absentmindedly after another short yawn, "S'ry," 

"Falling asleep on the job is sort of my thing," Tim tells him.

"Yeah," Martin says, response a bit delayed, "I snatched your gig."

Without warning, Tim reaches forward and starts to rummage around on the surface of Martin's desk, fingers digging underneath a stack of papers in the far left corner and then behind every other open space that he can find. Martin knows that he won't put anything back where it was once he moves it, but he lets him anyway. 

Much like everything else in his life, Martin's desk is occupied with too many things that he doesn't really need, stacked up nice and neat as if it's always belonged there; there's a stack of novelty sticky-notes shaped like whales in the upper right-hand corner and sitting just beside it is a blown out lamp, which is stacked upon two poetry books, laying very near a vintage, aging tape dispenser in the form of a frog. 

The clutter sort of makes him happy, makes his heart flutter with an odd amount of delight.

Tim picks up the entire mounting that Martin's work laptop sits on, looks under it, and places it down again. 

"Goddamnit." Tim frowns, defeated. A beat passes. Finally, their eyes meet. "Pen?"

"You should've just asked first." Martin leans forward in his chair. "I keep the pens in my desk 'cause Sasha kept stealing them."

From her desk, Sasha goes, "Not true," although it is very true.

Martin pulls out a drawer from his desk and, without much thought, digs around; his fingers narrowly avoid a staple puller and two clear, damaged boxes of pushpins, slightly ajar and flooding into the bottom of the cabinet. "What color?

Tim shrugs. 

"Here," Martin says. Tim gives him a disproportionately grateful look as he takes the pen from him.

"You're a lifesaver," he declares with a sigh, finally seeming at ease, "my other one exploded all over the Newlove case, right when I decided to do it. If I don't show up to work tomorrow, it's because Jon fired me, alright? I've been putting off research for this thing since about last September and I think he's finally starting to get proper miffed."

"Why?" and then, as a follow-up, Martin decides to add, neigh incredulous, "how did you manage to put off a case for three months?" 

"A general lack of enthuse for the culture." With his hands, Tim begins to gesture like a prestigious artist. Martin shoots him a very sharp look. "Hey, stop that! Don't look at me like that. You know, sometimes I get burnt out. I wanted to pass it to Sasha, 'cos she's got different resources and links and all of that, but she keeps saying that the case 'freaks her out'."

"That's spooky assistant speak for 'do your own job'."

"Maybe I should try that on Jon, sometime." Tim jokes. "Always asking me to fetch him things like I'm some sort of showdog -- that's your job, innit -- speaking of Jon, where's he been, lately? Haven't really seen him all day."

It takes two tries for Martin to say anything. "I'm not his keeper, Tim." 

"Could've fooled me." Tim rolls his eyes and scratches at the scruff on his chin. He begins to twirl the pen in one of his hands, inspecting it like it's genuinely interesting.

"No, really, haven't seen him much today," Martin admits. "Bumped into him shredding files for Elias and then again in the hall. Wouldn't even look at me. That's, like, weird, right?"

"Mm," Tim chides, "yeah, it's not like boss to avoid horrifically intense eye contact." 

"Then, we saw each other in the hallway. He didn't even say hi. It's odd. Do you think he's mad at me or something? I know that sometimes I get on his nerves and that I work slow, and the work I turn in isn't always the best, but I've never felt like he's hated me before. Enough to avoid me, I mean, because we've been, you know, friendly lately?"

Friendly.

...or something like that. 

Things aren't how they used to be. Things have definitely gotten better.

In the past, it felt like Jon just merely put up with Martin -- excused his late cases with a wave and a disappointed nod, chastised him when there were minor errors in the research, just about snarled at him when he accidentally interrupted a recording, and did not say thank you for the tea Martin frequently brought him.

He still does the latter, but Martin figures that there are just some things you have to learn to tolerate about the person you like. 

It felt like the assistants were always up against him and his rigid attitude; while Tim, Martin and Sasha were busy trying to get to know one another, every wall of Jon's seemed to be up, as if working at the Institute was a chore and everyone inside of it was a bother. Like he didn't have time to be nice.

But the archival department is small, both in employees and in department size, practically forcing its' workers to find something to like about one another in order to work efficiently and get along. It seemed like Jon wanted nothing to do with it. 

It's hard for Martin to think back to how Jon used to be. He still is far from perfect, with rough manners and workaholic demeanor, but he's gotten kinder. More approachable. He doesn't know when this started happening, not really, but he'd like to think that they've worn him down over time. 

Martin thinks he's trying, what with him joining the assistants on their journeys out of the archive for a group lunch every now and again, letting Martin into his office for a stay, cooperating with him, joking around with him, allowing Martin to help him clean his office, gave him something nice -- the journal sits in his messenger bag, always, though maybe he should take it out -- 

And Jon texted him, properly texted him the other day, a thing that makes Martin's stomach roll and his hands twitch with excitement. Jon had wanted his advice. Over coffee, which is something that they had in common, even if it was by way of a dumb bet made in the heat of the moment.

"Oh, hell," Tim rubs at his neck with a pitiful look, "you're whipped. Like, truly."

Martin makes a disgruntled little noise, halfway between a groan and an offended gasp of surprise. Even though he knows what it means, and he agrees, he says, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I let you mention Jon once -- because I'm your best friend, and a damn good one at that, letting you go on and on about him -- and then you get lost in your own little world. Do you know that you do that?"

Martin shifts in his seat. "Sometimes," and then he tries to justify, "but I'm getting better. At ignoring my feelings."

Tim frowns. "You shouldn't have to do that. Nobody should have to do that."

"I know." He glances over to check that Jon's office door is closed. It is, like always. "I mean, he's got Georgie, hasn't he? And I don't think there was really any chance for us to be something to begin with. It's getting easier." 

And Martin doesn't want Tim's damn pity, if that's what the look at Tim gives him is, but it feels nice to be understood. 

"I think if he keeps ignoring you things will only get worse." Tim suggests, "maybe you should talk to him about it when you get the chance."

"Shove off. You've got to be kidding me. If he doesn't like me now, approaching him Stoker style will not make anything better. I just think I'm being caught up over nothing, actually. It's his right to not want to talk to me."

"But he's your friend," Tim insists, "I mean, he's also our bitch ass boss, he's your friend. You said it yourself. Friends communicate with each other when there's an issue. If this goes on for more than, like, five days, I suggest you kick into high gear."

"That's a very Virgo thing for you to say."

Tim shrugs.

"What are you guys talking about over there?" Sasha sounds out, leaning into Martin's field of view from behind her laptop. "I heard Virgo. You guys talking about me?"

"None of your business. Don't you have work to do?" Tim replies back without glancing back over his shoulder to look at her. 

"Finished the Arashi case last night, Tim," She says, as if this is common knowledge. Martin glances back and forth between them. Maybe it is common knowledge. "I get my work done, unlike you lot."

"That wasn't nice."

Tim seems to give in, and says, "Come on over into the Blackwood-Stoker Estate, yeah? Get in on some of this Martin criticism," and Martin wants to reach across the desk and flick him in the forehead.

With a sigh, Sasha disappears behind her computer again, probably to turn it off, and then rolls her way to Martin's desk at maximum speed. 

"Christ!" Martin all but shouts.

At mach 100, She almost crashes into Tim, but catches herself on the arm of his own chair, stopping her at once. Martin presses his hand to his forehead. He forgets how anxious his fellow assistants make him. He hopes that Jon and Elias alike regret stretching the base archives budget to allow for the wheeled chairs every single day of their godforsaken lives.

Everyone laughs until they're aware that they're making too much noise -- Sasha shushes Martin, who shushes Tim, and they're a mess of small giggles and hushing. 

From here, Martin can get a good look at her ensemble: Sasha's clad in a shirt that's two sizes too big on her in a color she doesn't like. The seafoam green polo is tucked neatly into her jean skirt, held taut with an expensive-looking belt, and a clunky gold chain that contrasts with the usual dainty things she likes to wear. It's Tim's shirt, and his necklace, too. 

Martin raises an eyebrow. 

"Lovely getup," Martin prods with an amused grin, "I'm pretty sure Mr. Stoker here wore the same thing last Thursday."

"Ugh, really?" Sasha frowns and tugs at the collar. "I just stole his jewelry while we were coming in and grabbed the first shirt out of his closet. We were gonna be late otherwise." 

Tim's face breaks out into that troublemaking smile of his, one that just shouts mischief, "You know what they say about a man's closet."

She elbows him in the side swiftly and Tim keels with a groan. Whether it's a feat of dramatics or if it really did hurt as much as he's showing, Martin's not sure. She gives an apologetic look not to Tim, but to Martin. "Sorry about him."

"Sasha!" Martin exclaims anyway. "I sort of wanted to know what they say about a man's closet." 

"Guh. Sash, I think you shattered my ribcage. That's okay though. I still love you."

Everything about Sasha's demeanor falters and softens. The pale burgundy of her lipstick curls up with the corners of her mouth, her eyebrows lift, and her shoulders go slack in her chair. Martin tries to take it all in and ignore the way Tim is trying to recover next to her. She looks like... well, absolutely enamoured. Martin hasn't seen this look in real life before, has never gotten it, but he understands it -- sometimes, thinking about Jon, he catches himself in the mirror, and this is all he sees. 

He wonders if he'd ever get a quaint little look like that from anyone. He hopes, secretly, that one day it'd come from Jon.

He starts to flush.

It disappears as soon as Tim speaks again, but Martin doesn't have to look too hard to see it buried underneath the skeptically keen front she puts up for Tim. 

"My girlfriend is so strong! Gave me unfixable chest trauma. I'm so proud." Tim sings, and Sasha rolls her eyes. Martin smiles. He can't help himself.

"Not your girlfriend, Tim."

Tim sputters incredulously, and Martin leans in fondly, ready for a show. 

"This is my shirt," he points to Sasha's torso, "my chain," he points to her neck, "and my earrings." he tucks her hair behind her ear for her and points, "Also, I drove you to work this morning! I let you play your music, which, by the way, was a pain in my ass, because nobody wants to be in London stop-and-go traffic listening to Fiona Apple--"

Both Martin and Sasha give very enthusiastic and very irritated rebuttals over Fiona Apple.

"--and if it was anyone else in the car, Sasha, I would have told them to turn on anything else. But I didn't."

"Doing favors for a lady friend doesn't automatically mean you're dating her. You've never really asked me to be your girlfriend," She shoots back with a scoff, and crosses her arms over her chest. "and don't you dare do it here, Tim. I'm a lady. Take me on a nice date or something." 

"Maybe you should take _me_ on a nice date." He says under his breath, and throws on a very exaggerated pout. "Ask _me_ out." 

Martin shakes his head and laughs. "What is wrong with you both?" 

"Hungry, probably. Can we take lunch now?" Sasha questions. She steals the pen Tim's been toying with and pockets it swiftly. "You lot can also fill me in on what you guys were discussing over here while I was trying to finish up my file. Then we can trade office gossip. Rosie is getting married."

"What? No way. How'd you hear?"

"Check her ring finger next time you walk in, ask her about her day. She'll go off at the mouth about her mother-in-law. Apparently she's a disaster and that woman is trying to ruin her life, and--"

Sasha goes on and on, lets Tim and Martin chime in from time to time, and the work day goes on as usual. Martin forgets all about hand-crafting coffee for Jon, knocking on his door, being -- or not being -- acknowledged, and asking for a rating to excuse himself to. 

The rest of the day, Martin sees Jon in passing, and they don't say much. No snide remarks or snippy jokes that come with a regular day at the office. 

He finishes up the Wolfe case and decides to turn it in tomorrow, and hopes desperately that he can forget about this whole crush thing. Martin still wants to know what he did wrong earlier, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then i said "next chapter will be posted soon!" you know, like a liar!
> 
> it's been real folks. the delay has been extreme. let me tell you guys something okay i've been sitting on this chapter for a little over three months now and i just got around to editing this like YESTERDAY. but here it is in all it's glory! AND i've got the rest of the story planned out! ;
> 
> 4.7k words and we've got ... weird awkward quiet jon, looking very nice and losing all sense of social ability! and rosie's engaged! and tim and sasha are in love!
> 
> you can expect an update SOON. at some point. i am so sorry for making you guys wait this long. please forgive me.


	8. the fall of jonathan sims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a confrontation; not between an Archivist and his inferior, but between Jonathan Sims and every disharmonious thought in his head.
> 
> "H— um, Martin." He stutters over his words. _So much for keeping it together._ "Come, uh, come in."
> 
> Martin raises an eyebrow. He takes a step forward, then another, and too soon, Martin is idle besides Jon's desk. Jon dares himself to look up, his mouth dry and his stomach queasy. He finds, expressly, that this is a mistake. Martin is so tall. Jon feels hot all over.
> 
> Good lord. Jon is allergic to Martin Blackwood.
> 
> He pulls at the strings on his hoodie.

Jon has been trying to read the same statement for half an hour now. He isn't comprehending _any_ of it. 

The office is dim, with nothing but warmth from a lone overhead lightbulb flickering in tune with his heartbeat to illuminate his surroundings. It once had a companion, Jon reminisces idly, but that light had blown out just after Martin assisted him in neatening up the office. 

His desklamp has blown out too. Perhaps he'll find the energy to care once his next paycheck swings along; until then, though, he might as well be reading in the dead of night. This, somehow, doesn't bother him much, though he has to squint and strain to examine the paper before him.

_Araceli Hathaway,_ he reads. It's another handwritten statement, oddly juvenile in nature. Her i's are dotted with hearts, her capital letters are curly and grand, and her sentences are short, full of misspellings and amateur grammatical errors. There are several doodles in the margin — one of which seems to be a sketch of Sasha, but if Jon tilts his head, he finds that it could easily be a drawing of him. 

_Statement of Araceli Hathaway regarding her family's collection of porcelain dolls._ (He's reading it, sure, but he's not _understanding_ any of it.)

Jon clicks his pen, once, twice, three times, bouncing his leg to the rhythm. He jots down a quick, messy comment directly onto the statement, just to feel like he's doing something of importance, but all he's doing is pointing out the obvious. Many of the dolls Araceli's home has stored away in the attic are branded as classic Levedayans, ones that are about a century old, but that doesn't even hold much weight. It's a popular Russian brand that produces children's goods. He'll ask Tim to look into it. 

He painstakingly reviews the statement once more. Some of the words begin to morph into nonsense, and simple sentences lose their meaning. All at once, he feels like he's back in Oxford, slugging through literature work on nothing but three hours of sleep and one of Georgie's lukewarm energy drinks. 

Despite his newfound denseness, his eyes manage to catch on certain words. Domestic and tall. Unsophisticated. Delightful. He prevents his brain from making any hasty connections. 

Jon sighs, something so deep and low in his throat that it might as well be a groan, and finally realizes that he isn't going to get anything done in a state like this. Truly discombobulated. 

_An hour lost._ The office is cold, and he's almost grateful that he's wearing a hoodie again today; it is, all spare thoughts aside, the ideal garment for chilly weather. He shrugs down the too-long sleeves over his hands and props his head up in his palm. 

As soon as he starts to lose himself in his own mundane thoughts, things like tonight's and bills — 

Cute, Georgie had called Martin on Sunday.

"Damn." Jon's upper lip twitches. He curses himself for that being the first thought to jump to the frontlines of his mind. 

If he's really being honest, he hasn't stopped thinking about it.

Georgie had almost followed it up with a question that Jon wouldn't have known the answer to, one that held so much weight, one that set off every response alarm in his head. He'd stiffened up, and Georgie gave him a look he hadn't seen in years. It's signature, painfully smug but loving all the same. 

As they'd parted from the Marble Barista, Georgie urged him to take care of himself. Maybe dress more casual to work, she'd said. Try being comfortable for once.

"There's a dress code, Georgie," he'd complained, knowing that it was a weak excuse.

Jon hardly had the chance to ask why she'd insisted, but she'd said it with such sincerity, such earnest emotion, as though she knew something he didn't, that Jon couldn't find it within himself to refuse. 

And, maybe he could use some self-care anyway.

That night, he'd gone home and tried his hand at cleaning up. He'd sharpened the edges of his stubble, not willing to let it go entirely, properly washed his hair, painted his nails in that mild forest color of lacquer he'd bought from the corner store a month ago and was too shy to wear out. In the morning, Jon rooted through his closet until he found old garments that predated the Institute by quite a bit, and settled for a black hoodie that used to be Georgie's, warm and familiar, though he didn't fill it out as well as she used to.

He was nervous, coming into work the next day.

Jon hadn't ever been the type to put much effort into his appearance, not really. He'd worn uniforms all throughout grade school — it was convenient enough to wear the same thing everyday — and in university, he was all band tees three sizes too large and smudged, three-day old eyeliner. Nowadays, he hides behind his distastefully dusty academic look, the shagginess of his hair, and crooked glasses, living in a wardrobe fit for anyone above the age of 50. 

By dressing down and spiffying up though, somehow, it felt like he was going above and beyond. He wasn't opposed to it; he'd gone all in with the casual wear without hesitance, after all. He'd even pushed his hair back, up and out of his face, in attempts to adopt some sort of confidence from it.

Rosie had complimented him as soon as he entered, admitting that she was taken aback entirely by his change in aesthetic, and Jon ducked his head, giving a quiet thanks to the Institute's secretary. Sasha offered to take him out to dinner after work — embarrassingly humorous in it's own right — but it was nothing compared to the slow once-over and low whistle that Tim had provided. 

Martin had gaped and looked away. He studied the floorboards like they were the most interesting thing in the goddamn institute. 

Jon, at this point, figured out exactly what Georgie had talked him into; making a physical fool of himself in front of Martin Blackwood. To prove what point, he wasn't sure. He felt weird. So weird, in fact, that he'd taken to avoiding his coworker for most of the day. 

But in the breakroom, Martin had said he'd looked... _different._ And his world froze, because for a moment, that sounded like a good thing. Jon figured that he'd do anything to hear that type of tone from Martin again. Then, as per usual, he felt sick to his stomach and more nauseous than he's ever been.

And lightheaded, too.

What’s he meant to say to that?

It's like this: these off-kilter, vaguely unpleasant emotions are growing like wildflowers and weeds, finding any unoccupied space in his mind that it can and taking root there. It's parasitic in nature, entangling itself with every thought Jon's had since Sunday and killing it with an indisputable lack of mercy. He can't think straight. 

He scoffs at his own metaphor, mentally mocks his own comparison. Lofty and mundane. _Wildflowers and weeds, well, they can still be beautiful,_ he imagines Martin would say, and his face grows hot. 

_Martin._ Here he is again, consuming every thought Jon dares to have. He can't exactly put a finger on why, can't make any sort of sense out of it — but he thinks about Martin Blackwood, the freckles that find their home on his cheeks, the kind uncertainty in everything he does and says — and feels like he ought to lay down.

He wishes that he could place a name to this feeling. 

Jon tries to convince himself that, at some point, this soft, dull anxiety didn't ever exist at all. Just a few weeks ago, this wasn't really a problem, was it? (Maybe it was. Maybe he'd been ignorant on purpose, thinking that he could just ignore it. Maybe he'd just been to blind to see it for himself.) He refuses to consider that, otherwise, it had always been just lying in wait, looking for the right moment to strike.

He slams his pen down and leans back in his seat.

He's growing agitated. He runs a hand through his hair and ruffles lightly at the nape of his neck, breathing out with some sort of resignation.

Then, there are three heavy, steady knocks on his door, hesitant and subdued. 

It startles Jon right out of his momentary daze. He hardly has the chance to utter a response, a meek "come in" getting caught in his throat and faltering before it even hits the air, before the knob twists. Jon knows, in no uncertain terms, that it's Martin on the other side — his stomach lurches. The hinges of the door creak satirically loud, and all at once he feels that the Institute itself is mocking him somehow, forcing him to administer his coworkers' presence. 

He scowls to himself, partly at the noise, but mostly because he has to draw his pity party to a quick close. Deep breath, Sims. 

Jon squares his shoulders and lets his face fall into something halfway between disinterested and bothered. Jon is nothing but a practiced actor, and convincing others that he is _just fine_ is his strong suit. 

Martin stands under the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot, briefly looking Jon up and down as though Jon can't see him do it. Jon might be hallucinating this, and at this point he wouldn't be too surprised if he _is,_ but he thinks he sees Martin's breath catch in his throat, and his heart picks up speed. 

If Jon feels a bit uncharacteristically taken by this, well, that's nobody's business but his.

The manila folder he's clinging to is practically overflowing, stuffed with crisp white papers and miscellaneous photographs that don't exactly seem to fit. Some of the files inside even seem to be color-coded, and Jon can feel his facade slip right off of his face, feeling all too impressed for his own good. 

He cannot even begin to fathom going over more work while his brain is in such a state of disarray, but he's glad that someone is getting something done around here, even if it's, well, Martin.

He ought to keep it together. Jon draws a sharp breath in through his nose. 

Martin tucks a stray curl behind his ear and Jon's stomach drops. This is the same coworker he's been seeing everyday for months, but examining Martin on this mediocre Tuesday afternoon, clad in the same pressed slacks and threadbare beige jumper that he wears thrice a week, things feel strange.

This feels like a confrontation; not between an Archivist and his inferior, but between Jonathan Sims and every disharmonious thought in his head.

"H— um, Martin." He stutters over his words. _So much for keeping it together._ "Come, uh, come in."

Martin raises an eyebrow. He takes a step forward, then another, and too soon, Martin is idle besides Jon's desk. Jon dares himself to look up, his mouth dry and his stomach queasy. He finds, expressly, that this is a mistake. Martin is so tall. Jon feels hot all over.

Good lord. Jon is allergic to Martin Blackwood.

He pulls at the strings on his hoodie.

Martin's mouth is pulled tight, shaped something like a frown, and looks farther away than he's ever been. It's odd. He doesn't ask how Jon's doing, or pries at his mental state, or insists that he takes a break, and as much of a bother Jon would insist all of that is on a regular day, he finds that he's missing it. He chews on the rawness of his lip.

"Here's the Wolfe case." He drops it onto Jon's desk with a satisfying thwap.

"Dima Wolfe," Jon questions, putting his hand to the folder and drawing it closer to him, ignoring the way it's sort of begin to shake, "or Michael Wolfe?" 

"Dima." Martin answers shortly, seeming a bit put off. If he sees Jon quaking like a leaf, he doesn't show it. "Sasha volunteered to look into her disappearance, so I made a copy of everything and provided the files to her also."

Jon can't stop himself. He rolls his eyes and breathes out, though it holds no venom. Leave it to Martin to spend so much time doing intricate, surface-level impressive work, only to skip over the common sense of just emailing information to a coworker. "You do know that you're wasting paper?"

Martin snorts. His laugh sounds mean, casting his eyes to his feet and studying his laces as though he doesn't see these same beat-up Converse everyday. "Company dime."

A beat passes.

Jon, at once, realizes that he should apologize for the way he treated Martin yesterday. And then, he gets thrown off by the fact that he even cares. He's been meaner to Martin before, hasn't he? Why is this making him feel so _sore?_

As he opens his mouth to speak, Martin cuts him off.

"I'll be doing overtime tonight." Martin tells Jon. "I'm covering the Eiffel case for Sasha, the one she skipped dealing with the worms and Elias?" 

"I'm staying late, too," Jon says desperately, even though he really wasn't planning on doing so. Before he can stop himself he adds, "perhaps I can keep you company."

Martin looks up and raises an eyebrow. He's taken to playing with the hem of his sweater again, a telltale sign of nervous, but it doesn't quite reach his face. "Right."

"Right."

"Okay?"

Martin leaves, and lingers in the doorway with his back to Jon for a spare second. Jon knows that they're likely considering the same thing. 

Beverage ratings, and all of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly... just take it <3 happy wednesday
> 
> SORRY FOR LEAVING YOU GUYS HANGING FOR SO LONG I... PROMISE I DIDN'T FORGET. in no certain terms; jon!


End file.
